


26 Days

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 30,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2709782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles in the run up to Christmas. Set post Endgame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Advent

**Advent**

* * *

**Friday 30 th November**

It’s getting late and they seem to be running out of wine. Grace speculatively eyes the now nearly empty bottle she unearthed after the squad room emptied around them and they moved to her office to continue theorising about their latest suspect list. She wonders how much longer he’s going to want to stay.

He’s sitting behind her desk, scribbling idle notes while she lounges in a chair opposite.

“How do you work with so much crap cluttering your desk?” Boyd asks, sitting back and stretching his arms above his head.

“How do you work in such a utilitarian, sparse, characterless space?” she immediately retorts. He grins at her, slow and easy, and she feels a shiver run down her spine.

“What’s this for?” He holds up a thin rectangular cardboard box with a picture of a snowman on the front.

“It’s an advent calendar,” she yawns, helping herself to the last little bit of wine. The look he gives her is so typical she could see it before it crossed his features. “It’s Kat’s,” she shrugs, taking a sip. “She bought it for her nephew and forgot to take it with her.”

“Why is it on your desk?”

Grace ponders the question, savouring a sip from her glass. “No idea,” she finally settles on. “She and I went out to lunch with Eve while you and Spence disappeared to wherever it was you disappeared to today.” She gestures lazily with the hand holding her glass. “When we came back, it just ended up in here.”  

He studies the cheerful picture of the snowman, vaguely recalls once watching the cartoon.

December. Christmas. Holidays.

Memories.

Loneliness. Irritation. Overwhelming sadness.

Too many people, too much hassle.

“I hate Christmas,” he mutters, thinking of the string of holidays he’s spent alone in recent years, with only a whiskey bottle for company, and his silent, brooding thoughts.

She says nothing, watching him with clear, quiet eyes and an understanding expression. For a while they go back to theorising; including and excluding potential suspects based on what they do and don’t know so far.

The clock ticks remorselessly on and Grace yawns again, fidgeting in her chair.

“Have you had enough yet? It’s getting late,” she finally enquires, bored now and increasingly weary.  

“Getting tired, Doctor Foley?” he asks, gazing steadily at her, his dark eyes intense and intent. She knows that look; knows it very well indeed. She likes it too.

“I’d say it’s definitely getting closer to bedtime,” she replies artlessly, for she can also play the game. His answering smirk brings the shivers down her spine back again. Getting to her feet she moves behind the desk to straighten the clutter he has impatiently pushed aside.

“Can you believe it’s December tomorrow?” she murmurs absently, glancing at the calendar as she shuts down her computer. “The year’s almost over.”

“Good riddance,” he tells her, signing the form in front of him, capping his pen and gathering his notes. He looks up, sees her questioning look and shrugs. “What? You can’t pretend it’s been a great year.”

He’s right, and she nods. She understands. It’s been inordinately long and tough for both of them and she won’t be sorry to see the New Year in either, but there are some good things that have come out of the last few months.

“It’s not been entirely bad, though, has it?” she says, not sure if she’s asking or telling. He regards her calmly, the weight of his gaze heavy as he reaches out and captures her hand with his, gently pulling her closer.

“No,” he replies, absolutely truthfully. His fingers brush across her cheek before sliding into her hair, combing through the soft strands as he smoothly tugs her into his lap. His lips are infinitely tender as they seek hers, his other arm curving around her back, holding her snugly against him as his fingers slowly, delicately trace along her spine. She’s lost in seconds, her rational mind shutting down as her senses take over entirely.

He pulls back, and she’s gratified to see she is not the only one who is more than just a little dazed.

“Definitely not entirely bad,” Boyd murmurs, and his tone is rough, husky. His fingers are still stroking gently through her hair. He leans forward to kiss her again, firmly intoxicated in the warmth of her, the taste of her, and somehow one kiss becomes two, two turns into three, and they are lost again.

“Let’s go home,” she breathes against him eventually. His wandering hands still, and his arms tighten briefly around her, holding her close, secure, before he lets her go with a sigh. There has very definitely been one good thing to come out of this year, he muses, absorbedly watching her as she slides into her coat, fastening the buttons against the icy winter night. Possibly the best thing to ever happen to him. 

His eyes fall on the advent calendar again; a countdown to Christmas, towards the end of the year. A fresh start. She’s right though, it’s not all been bad. Some of it’s been good. Very, very good. And maybe what’s still to come will be too.

Getting to his feet he watches her swing the strap of her bag over her shoulder, slide her hands into thick gloves. Standing by the door, she raises an eyebrow at him and he grins in response, switching off the desk lamp and following her out. He has a sneaking suspicion that he’s actually going to enjoy Christmas this year.


	2. Baking

**Baking**

* * *

**Sunday 2 nd December**

That the kitchen smells of spices is the first thing Boyd registers. The second is that she’s standing at the counter mixing something in a bowl, wearing an apron and a smudge of flour across her nose. His fingers itch to wipe it away.

“What are you doing?” he ambles in and leans against the fridge, watching curiously.

“Baking,” is the vague answer. She sprinkles something into the bowl, stirs some more, frowns and adds another handful of mystery ingredient.

“I can see that,” he replies slowly, with a great deal of long-suffering patience. He gets no response; she’s concentrating on pouring whatever it is she’s now adding to her mixture. “It’s Sunday morning, Grace,” he murmurs, stepping up behind her as she puts the container down and resumes stirring. “Early on Sunday morning.”

“Not that early,” she tells him, nodding to the clock. “I was awake. You weren’t. I thought I’d get this started.”

His arms wrap around her waist from behind, hugging her firmly against his body. He lowers his head, delicately kisses the side of her neck. He feels her hum with pleasure, tilt her head back against his shoulder as her eyes slide shut and he grins, shamelessly intent on distracting her.

Until he catches a glimpse of the other ingredients scattered across the counter.

“What are you making?” he asks, suddenly a lot more interested in what she’s doing.

“Fruit cake,” she mumbles, leaning further back into him, relishing the warm, solid weight of him.  

“Oh, well, in that case I’ll leave you alone to finish what you’re doing,” he tells her, letting go and stepping back.

Grace’s fruit cake is the stuff of legend in the CCU bunker. Nothing like the typical dry, boring concoction usually expected when the festive season rolls around, hers is moist, packed with a mix of subtle flavours and chock full of delicious fruit and nuts. No disgusting marzipan either.

“What?” she turns, regarding him with an expression that is filled every bit as much with confusion as it is with irritation. He gestures toward the work surface.

“Far be it from me to interrupt the production of your fruit cake,” he tells her, giving her an easy grin. Frowning as she turns away from him, she gives the bowl of dry ingredients a final stir, and then starts to clear the counter, putting boxes and containers of materials away in their respective cupboards.

“You’re not giving up are you?” he asks, observing from the other side of the room where he is making coffee as she picks up the dishcloth and wipes the surface.

Grace shakes her head. “Of course not. There’s just nothing else I can do at the moment; the fruit needs to soak first.” He stares at her, a very attentive and inquiring look suddenly clearly visible in his eyes again.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He puts his mug down, crosses him arms. “And how long does that take?” he wants to know.

“Oh, quite a while,” she shrugs, apparently indifferent. He raises an eyebrow, takes a step forward. She leans back against the counter, entirely casual.

“A while?” She nods and he takes another step closer. “How long is a while Grace?” She looks up at him – she has to – because he’s right in front of her now.

“Oh, several hours,” she tells him, apparently trying hard to maintain her disinterested tone. His hands are resting on the edge of work surface on either side of her, effectively pinning her to the spot.

“I see,” he murmurs, staring right into her eyes.

He rests his palm against her cheek, slowly brushing his thumb across her nose and wiping away the flour. “And had you planned on doing anything while you wait?” he wants to know, his tone deliberately very low, very deep. He’s still gazing at her, dragging the moment out.

Grace reaches up, wraps her arms around his neck and stands on tiptoe. “Absolutely nothing,” she whispers very softly into his ear. 


	3. Cosy Fire

**Cosy Fire**

* * *

**Monday 3rd December**

It’s bitterly cold outside. The kind of utterly miserable, horribly damp and darkly gloomy winter chill that mercilessly works its way through their heavy layers, steals their breath as they walk and leaves them thoroughly frozen and dejected in the wake of their largely unsuccessful trip to meet Martin Jeffries, who over the weekend somehow catapulted to the top of their suspect list, and has now unequivocally been removed from it.

There’s no pretty snow, nor any picturesque frost to try and justify the horrible weather, there’s only an equally gloomy and rather quiet town and the boring prospect of many miles and at least a couple of hours tedious drive back to London. It’s well past lunch time now, and they’re both hungry, disenchanted and unquestionably heading towards irritable and the consequent inevitable bickering. All in all, it’s not been a good day so far.

Not keen on immediately launching back into the journey home, fed up with ignoring the grumbling of his empty stomach and exceedingly preoccupied with his increasing worry about the rather violent shivering of his companion, whose immune system he knows only too well has taken a severe battering in recent months, Boyd decisively seeks out a solution.

And a good solution it is indeed, he reflects as they sit in comfortable chairs beside an old stone hearth which is currently housing a roaring and merrily crackling fire. It’s a pub; an old, well-established and rather shabby looking establishment. The sort of place locals hang out, where the food is good, the atmosphere is relaxed, and the people are friendly.

“This is nice,” sighs Grace, leaning back in her chair and relaxing in the radiating glow of the fire.

“It is,” he agrees, studying her carefully.

She knows him, catches him out instantly. “I’m fine,” she tells him softly, seriously. “Thawing out nicely.”

He allows a half-smile in return. “Just checking,” he admits, and she smiles and takes his hand, gives it a slight, reassuring squeeze.

Their food arrives, and for a while they are preoccupied, eating, drinking and maintaining a relaxed, effortless conversation.

They are comfortably warm now, and the cosy, peaceful atmosphere has soothed away any lingering fractiousness brought on by their largely unsuccessful expedition. It’s just the pair of them and the natural, easy companionship they have learned to share.

Finishing first, Grace settles back in her chair, sipping her water and enjoying the warmth of the fire. The lighting is low and very diffuse in their corner, and she watches the way the soft shadows seem to wrap around her companion. He’s sitting opposite her, and she can see the dancing flames behind her reflected back in his dark eyes. It’s really rather hypnotic.

Idly she ponders the evening ahead.

“Are you coming home with me tonight,” she asks quietly, “or are you planning to stay late and play catch up since we seem to have wasted most of the day?”

He leans back in his own chair, watching the way the firelight plays around her. The flickering light soaks into her skin, gently caressing her. Her eyes are a dark, ethereal blue in the half-light and it’s tantalisingly seductive.

“Neither, actually,” he says slowly, and the beginnings of a smirk settle in the corners of his mouth.

“Oh?” she raises an eyebrow. “Got a better offer, have you?”

“I think so,” he nods, and that hint of a smirk becomes a full-blown grin as her eyebrows knit and she regards him steadily but says nothing. They are too good at this, he reflects, as the silence and the stare down continue. He gives in first. He usually does.

“I thought you might like to come home with me,” he tells her. “I’ve got a very nice bottle of red somewhere, and an open fire.” Glancing sideways at the two squabbling young men across the room from them, he adds, “A very quiet, cosy open fire.” He shifts in his seat, his back and shoulders uncomfortably stiff and sore after the long, unintentionally scenic drive that morning. “And I don’t know about you, but a quiet, peaceful evening seems very appealing tonight.”

“It does indeed,” she agrees. She’s not looking forward to the long drive home any more than he is, not when traffic will be appalling, and they’ve so little to show for the excursion. But as she allows her mind to wander over the hours ahead, she finds she really doesn’t mind that much at all.


	4. Dashing

**Dashing**

(or not)

* * *

**Tuesday 4th December**

It’s his fault she’s going to be late. His fault entirely!

His house, his responsibility for setting the alarm. His fault for forgetting.

His fault, too, that they both spectacularly overslept – he’s the reason they went to bed so late last night, after all. Ergo, it is definitely his fault she is going to be late.

She thinks she could also probably blame him for the fact that when she woke up, instead of being comfortably snuggled beneath the duvet on her side of the bed while he slumbered away on his side as per usual, she was instead somehow inexplicably tucked tightly and very cosily against his chest, his arms firmly wrapped around her and his head tucked into the back of her shoulder as he snored on, oblivious. Totally, therefore, his fault she succumbed to the need to close her eyes for just five more exquisitely blissful minutes and promptly fell back into a very deep sleep.

Yeah, definitely his fault.

It really was a wonderful evening…

Not going to help her right now, though!

She hasn’t got the benefit of a car with flashing blue lights, nor a willingness to drive like a lunatic just to make up for lost time.

She hasn’t got the impatience to rush everything, forgo that first cup of morning tea and skip breakfast all in an effort not to let the youngsters beat her in to work either.

He can do the whole mad dash across London thing; she’ll damn well take her time and make sure she arrives in one piece. It’s most definitely a much more sensible course of action. 

He growls at her in a fit of bad temper as she sidles into the basement. She ducks her head, shrugs off his grumblings and settles quietly behind her desk. It’s all for show.

There are surreptitious glances traded between Kat and Spencer, but wisely they elect to say nothing, they just keep their heads down and carry on with whatever it is they are doing. Grace suppresses a smirk and tries to settle to the task of dealing with all the emails that went unanswered yesterday. Tries being the operative word. She makes an honest attempt, she really does, but images and memories of the particularly pleasant kind keep invading her mind, distracting her.

Minutes later Boyd catches her eye and she just knows he’s thinking of exactly the same thing she is.

Firelight, darkness, heavy shadows. Warmth, red wine and deep, lazy kisses. A very heady mixture.

Emails! Emails!

Not happening…

Damn. She’s mature, sensible, professional…

She should be able to concentrate.

But she can’t.

She suspects it has a lot to do with feeling so content, relaxed, and secure in his arms when they both eventually woke up. And the delicate patterns he was so intently tracing across her shoulder with his fingertips before his eyes fell on the clock and he abruptly leapt out of bed with a loud and extremely impressive stream of rather succinct exclamations.

She really should get on with some work, but it’s just nowhere near as much fun as daydreaming about the warmth of his skin and the softness of his touch, or the heat of his lips lingering on the back of her neck.  

To hell with being sensible!


	5. Eggnog

**Eggnog**

* * *

**Wednesday 5th December**

On reflection, Grace grimly and rather desperately thinks, she really should have known better than to ask why, exactly, Kat was grinning quite so enthusiastically when they all arrived for work this morning.

* * *

“I made Eggnog last night,” Kat explains eagerly, pulling a sealed jug out of her bag and holding it up while the rest of them look on with expressions ranging from mild disgust through to curious interest.

“Revolting stuff,” Spence immediately declares before walking off to get the morning coffee started.

“It’s a bit of a strange colour, isn’t it?” Eve points out, leaning in for a closer examination. Kat shrugs, unconcerned, and sets her prize down on the nearest desk.

“It’s dairy-free. I made it with soymilk, almond milk, pasteurised eggs, cinnamon and nutmeg. Oh, and rum! Possibly slightly more than a splash of brandy, too.”

“Interesting,” offers Grace diplomatically, determined not to voice her thoughts on the relatively questionable list of ingredients.

“Nutmeg _and_ cinnamon?” asks Eve, clearly doubtful, but still not totally deterred.  There is, thinks Grace, such a thing as too much scientific curiosity. But, still inherently inquisitive, Eve continues to dissect the recipe.

“Rum and brandy? Isn’t that a little much?” She’s wonderfully frank, is Eve. No qualms whatsoever about dressing up her concerns. Grace looks up at Boyd, sees him shake his head at her behind Kat’s back. Clearly his thoughts are running firmly in the same direction as hers.

“Not at all, it’s wonderful!” grins Kat. “I make it every year for my family, and I brought plenty with me, so you can all try it too.” Turning to Boyd, she produces a collection of plastic cups, also from the depths of her bag. “Would you like some, sir?”

Suppressing a grin, Grace watches with a good deal of amusement as he flounders – just for a moment – for the right response, evidently not quite ready to deal with the thought of such an assault on his taste buds quite so early in the day.

“Later, Kat. We’ll try it later. I haven’t even had a decent cup of coffee yet.”

* * *

And as she clutches the edge of the lab sink and heaves once again, Grace can’t help wishing that later had never come along. That Boyd had bluntly told Kat where to take her concoction and that Eve wasn’t quite so open-minded and inquiring. It’s no consolation either that beside her, Eve is clutching the waste paper basket that normally lives at the foot of the desk, knuckles stark white and clenched in a death grip, her face hidden from view as she too suffers the violent and unquestionably disgusting after-effects.

Her legs are trembling, and Grace leans heavily on the sink, turning the cold tap on and cupping water in her palms to rinse her mouth out. It’s an effort to hold her hands steady enough to sip the water and most of it splashes away into the depths of the drain. She’s shivering intensely too, and so, she discovers, when she risks a sideways glance, is Eve.

Eve looks up from the bin and her expression is every bit as pitiful as Grace feels. Her sleek, elegant hair is defiantly escaping from its immaculate braid in wispy, sweaty, rebellious tendrils. Her face is flushed and her eyes are dull with that grim despair of uncontrollable sickness. She looks every bit as bad as Grace suspects she herself does.

“I’m going to kill her,” Eve whispers hoarsely. In response, Grace turns quickly and desperately back to the sink.

As promised, it really didn’t taste that bad. Not quite pleasant, but not horrible enough that they were willing to risk hurting Kat’s feelings by refusing to finish the generous measures she poured out for each of them, with the exception of Spencer, who whether in wisdom or just better taste, flatly refused even the tiniest of sips.

But now, sitting side by side on stools and half lying across the empty lab table, faces pressed to the cool, solid surface, they are both feeling entirely indifferent toward those feelings. Behind them a pneumatic whoosh of air heralds a new arrival; neither of them so much as attempts to look up and see who it is.

“Grace? Eve?” croaks a familiar voice. Eve manages a vague moan of acknowledgement. Grace doesn’t even try. Boyd staggers over to the table; he grips the edge, swaying slightly on his feet. There’s a light sheen of sweat visible on his brow, his shirt is untucked and his sleeves are haphazardly rolled up.

Grace screws her eyes tightly shut and takes a long, steadying breath.

“Where is she?” she rasps.

“Out with Spence, interviewing Jonas,” he replies darkly, and promptly lets out a miserable groan as his inside twist and churn horribly.

“How long until this day is over?” Eve mumbles, one hand clutching her stomach, the other pressed determinedly against her pounding temple.

“It’s over now,” Boyd tells her, decisively. “I called a cab; let’s go.”

* * *

Eve is feeling far too wretched as she gathers her things to notice the way he gently peels Grace off the lab table and helps her to her feet. Everything is hazy enough as they gather coats and bags and stagger out of the building to wait that the way the two of them are clinging rather desperately to each other doesn’t really register. Especially since she is leaning just as much on Boyd as he is on her as the three of them stand huddled together, effectively propping each other up in the dark frosty chill of late afternoon.

The cold air seems to help a little though, because when the promised taxi finally arrives, she really can’t help but notice that he immediately gives her address to the driver, rather than his or Grace’s. Even in her sickness induced state of abject gloom, she can’t fail to find that interesting. Neither can she fail to be intrigued by the way Grace slides into him as the vehicle rounds a corner and gravity exerts its forces. Slides into him, and stays.

Grace leans against his shoulder, hands pressed tightly to her face and Boyd simply wraps an arm around her, eyes firmly closed, head reclined back in his misery. It’s an automatic movement. The sort of thing that established, familiar couples do. Slumped in her seat opposite them Eve smiles, feeling just the tiniest bit better.


	6. Father Christmas

**Father Christmas**

* * *

**Thursday 6th December**

“I met him when I was six,” Grace remembers fondly. “My dad took me one Saturday morning while my mother did the shopping. It was snowing, and I thought there was no way he was real, because his clothes were too clean.”

He’s watching her attentively, the fingers of one hand lightly mapping the bones of her ankle as they sit facing each other at opposite ends of the sofa, legs entangled between them. His expression is reflective and thoughtful as he contemplates his own question.

“I was… five, maybe? He came to school, my first year. He met all the little ones – gave us presents too. I got an action figure. It was a policeman.” They grin at each other, highly entertained.

“Did it have handcuffs?” she wants to know, her eyes glinting impishly.

“It did indeed!” he answers, seriousness entirely feigned.

Laughter fills the room, echoing luxuriously around them. Boyd picks up his mug of tea from the end table and considers it, quietly pensive again. After the disaster yesterday, both of them are still feeling a little too fragile to attempt anything stronger.

“What do you mean, his clothes were too clean?” he asks eventually.

“Childhood logic,” she shrugs. “He couldn’t possibly be so neat and tidy when he’d been up and down so many chimneys.”

He shakes his head slowly, as if trying to picture her as a little girl. “I bet you were one of those children that just has to rationalise everything, weren’t you?” he asks, staring deep into her eyes. “You had to know all the answers, am I right?”

“Studious to the extreme,” she confirms, her own eyes twinkling over the rim of her mug. “Teacher’s pet, total know-it-all.”

“Nothing’s changed then,” he teases. Grace raises an eyebrow, gazing steadily at him, but says nothing. She rests her head back, closes her eyes and lets her thoughts go, making a conscious effort to stop thinking and relax her mind as much as her body. She concentrates on his touch instead; the light caress of his fingertips on the delicate skin of her ankle is wonderfully soothing. So too is the way his thumb applies pressure to the arch of her foot, releasing the tension of the day. She’s drifting now, thoroughly ensnared in the sensory nature of the moment. It’s peaceful, very pleasant.  

“Did you like him?” he inquires suddenly, and she starts faintly, rousing a little from her serenity.

“Like who?” she asks languidly, humming softly with pleasure as his touch ventures a little further up her leg, lightly massaging the muscle there.

“Father Christmas.” He puts his empty mug aside and applies both hands more firmly to the task.

“No,” is her lazy reply as she sinks further into the cushion, utterly content with simply enjoying the indulgence.

“Why not?”

“I told you – he was a fraud. The real Santa would never be that clean. He wouldn’t have a grumpy donkey instead of reindeer either.”

“You know your trouble, Grace?” His hands have moved to her other leg now, and her eyes are closed in deep, pervading pleasure. “You think about things far too much.”

“Hmm…” is all the answer she can manage.


	7. Gifts

**Gifts**

* * *

**Friday 7th December**

He wakes first on Friday morning, and he’s genuinely glad about it. A quick glance at the clock tells him there is plenty of time yet before they need to get up, and he takes a few moments just to observe her. She’s incredibly peaceful – she never fidgets or moves around much – and he can’t help but watch her. There is something about her when she’s sleeping that he can’t quite put his finger on, but whatever it is, it draws him in every time.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he watches the way her features twitch slightly as she begins to stir. Smiling to himself, he leans down and brushes his lips against her shoulder. She sighs softly and opens her eyes, looking up at him.

“Hi,” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep as she blinks heavily.

“Good morning,” he replies, fingertips stroking across her temple, moving stray strands of hair away from her face.

She yawns and turns into his touch. “What time is it?” she asks, drowsily. 

“Early,” he murmurs, still tracing her features. Her eyes slide shut and she rolls toward him, snuggling into his chest. He curves an arm around her, fingers now sketching the length of her spine. She shivers and presses herself closer. She is tucked tightly against him, her face hidden as daylight begins to seep into the room. He lowers his head, runs his lips across her neck and feels her hum with pleasure.

“Grace,” his voice is soft, gentle, and she turns, looks up at him. She moves, wraps her arms around him, warm hands sliding over his skin as her lips seek his. It’s slow and languid and very thorough, that kiss, and when they pull apart he whispers quietly in her ear, “Happy Birthday, Grace.” She smiles up at him and pulls him closer still.

* * *

He walks into her office mid-afternoon carrying a mug of tea for her and a coffee for him. He’s sent Kat and Spencer to Hounslow to chase up a possible new lead and Eve is firmly ensconced in her lab, happily playing with a brand new and disgustingly mouldy corpse, leaving the two of them alone in the squad room.

Grace is sitting on the floor, leaning back against a chair with her legs curled to the side. There are piles of notes, files, records, articles and other miscellaneous scraps of paper spread out around her; the contents of just one of the three large crates chronicling the mental health progression of Marcus Gregory, who yesterday moved from somewhere in the vicinity of their list of possible suspects to being definitely involved in the grisly, decade-old unsolved murder of Kiera Hall.

“How’s it going?”

“Well… all I can really tell you at the moment is that Gregory has been in and out of psychiatric institutions for most of the last thirty years. And if I ever get my hands on the person responsible for this mess,” she gestures to the files spread out around her and the two additional boxes still awaiting her attention, “we’re going to have a serious chat about filing and organisation.” He can’t help a small smirk at the vehemence in her tone as she delivers the last part of her statement, though he hides it quickly when she looks up at him, exasperated.

“I brought you a present,” he tells her, offering the mug before carefully lowering himself to the floor and taking a seat among the haphazard piles.

“Thank you.” The heartfelt reply is accompanied by a warm smile as she takes a sip and sighs in gratitude. “Mmm… lovely!”

“I wasn’t talking about the tea,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket and producing the McVitie’s Digestives he filched from a desk draw, waving them enticingly.

“You bring me the nicest things,” she grins, her eyes sparkling with laughter. He hands over the biscuits, enjoying the warmth of her touch as she slowly and deliberately runs her fingers over his before taking the packet. He watches her dunk a biscuit in her tea and wonders, not for the first time, how he got so lucky. How, after so many personal disasters, after he had given up on ever again finding someone to love, and love him back, he finally found the right person. The one who had been there all along.   

“Do you want help sorting all of this?” he asks, because he would far rather sit on the floor in here with her than return to his desk and the overdue expense accounts that are waiting for his attention. She looks at him, easily reading his mind, and nods, indicating the piles she has yet to wade through and explaining the method of categorisation.

He goes to work, and they sit quietly, sipping their drinks and munching on the biscuits while she picks her way through the deluge of available information. They have perfected the art of companionable silence over the years, and they revel in it. There is no need to speak; they just quietly enjoy each other’s proximity as they work.

He has an almost obsessively neat and organised nature, and very soon the mess of paper is starting to resemble a workable field of study. He fetches another of the crates and starts to work through that as well. It’s a tedious job, though, and one from which he’s easily distracted.

Observing people is another art form they have both perfected over the years, in his case very often practiced by watching her. His eyes trace her body, taking in the soft, gentle curves he is so well acquainted with, before his gaze is drawn back to her face. Her eyes have the focused, intent look that indicates she's concentrating hard on whatever it is she is doing, and she’s biting her lower lip, also a sign her attention is occupied. Her free hand is fiddling with the cap of the blue biro she has been scribbling notes with as she reads, an indication that something doesn’t quite add up.

Elbow propped on the chair he’s leaning on, he tilts his head, resting it in his hand.

“Grace,” he says softly, still watching, still completely absorbed in her.

“Hmmm?” She’s still reading, the page in her hand one of many from the thick folder in her lap. He waits until she finishes the paragraph and looks up at him. She slides her glasses off, her eyes silently questioning.

“I love you,” he tells her, softly and very honestly.

It’s quiet, unadorned and straightforward, his statement, and it’s the absolute truth, but from the stunned look in her eyes as she stares at him, it’s categorically not what she was expecting him to say. He doesn’t tell her very often – neither of them are guilty of overusing the words – and he thinks that it is his fault, that she is following his example.  

The squad room is empty, they are very much alone and there’s only a stack of medical notes between them, so Boyd, without a moment’s hesitation, breaks the most fundamental of their rules. He leans toward her, closes the gap between them, and, right there in her office during working hours, he kisses her. It’s gentle, exquisitely tender and an affirmation of everything he feels about her.

Pulling back, he sees the shocked, dazed look that’s still in her eyes, and the reflection of everything he’s just tried to convey to her. He can see her struggling for words, wanting to return the sentiment for him and he shakes his head slightly, gently pressing a finger to her lips. He doesn’t need her to say anything; he already knows. 

Still staring at him, she can feel her heart pounding with shock. Her chest feels tight with emotion, the warmth of happiness. She takes slow, steady breaths as he returns to his task, glancing up now and then to look at her, a deep, content smile on his lips and in his eyes.

Her mind wanders, and she thinks about the birthday gifts from him, from her colleagues; all lovely items chosen with care and her tastes in mind. In celebration of her special day, there will be the traditional drinks this evening at their local haunt, and he has promised to take her out tomorrow evening when they will be uninterrupted and have all the time they want to linger over dinner together. It’s traditional and it’s wonderful, and she enjoys it – they all do.

But then her thoughts turn to this moment, right now. Sitting on the floor of her office with him, working through one of the more mundane tasks of the job together, simply because he wanted to spend the time with her. Because he loves her, and she loves him.

Sometimes, she thinks, the things that cost nothing are the best gifts of all.


	8. Holly and Ivy

**Holly and Ivy**

* * *

**Saturday 8th December**

It’s a tiny place, the restaurant she chooses, far in the outskirts of the sprawling city and well away from the craziness, the heaving crowds and the general chaos of city life. It’s quiet, intimate, and informal. An old, ivy covered brick building that was converted from its original incarnation as a pub many years ago, it’s an endless maze of tiny rooms, oak beams and eclectic, mismatched furniture. 

He thinks it’s every bit as quirky and endearing as she is, and consequently it was the first restaurant he took her to once they’d stepped, hand-in-hand, over that final hurdle together. Something of a first date, despite all the years of working and sharing meals together. He can still picture that night exactly, can remember precisely what she was wearing, can still see the look in her eyes as she watched him from across the table, still not quite believing their new reality.  

It was wonderful then, and it’s still wonderful now.

Tonight she’s wearing something that’s a deep, dark purple; it’s long and flowing and fits her like a glove, teasing him, tempting him. The room is very softly lit by candles on the table, and in the muted light her eyes sparkle as she looks across at him. She looks happy and healthy; absolutely beautiful. 

It’s so easy, the way they are together. They laugh, they never run out of things to talk about, and they just enjoy each other’s company. He’s never felt such ease and warmth before. He’s never felt so much, so deeply, before either.

The food is very good, the wine excellent and the atmosphere is cosy, seductive even. Someone has decorated for Christmas already, and there are strands of ivy mixed with tiny, twinkling lights wrapped around the many archways, elegant wintery flower arrangements tucked in out-of-the-way corners and sprigs of holly adorning the windowsills, the bright red berries starkly cheerful against the prickly green leaves.

He’s not normally one for making much of a fuss about Christmas, he hasn’t been for years now – too much sorrow and heartache, too many bad memories – but this year is different. This year he’s got plenty of reasons to celebrate.

“Real tree or fake tree?” he asks, studying her inquisitively as he ponders the question himself.

Grace shrugs, suddenly a little unsure. “I haven’t had a Christmas tree for a long time now,” she tells him quietly, and the slightly indifferent, factual way she says it tugs at his heart.

“Why not?” he wants to know, leaning forward in his chair, suddenly a lot more intent.

“I suppose I didn’t see the point in decorating when there was no one to enjoy it with,” she considers, reaching for her glass.

“That’s really sad, Grace,” he sighs and she shrugs again.

“That’s life,” she replies, frankly. “Besides, don’t try and tell me you do anything of the sort either.”

She has a point, he has to concede, but he still can’t get the terrible sadness of it out of his head. The idea of her alone and lonely is a haunting thing. Never mind that he himself has treated the holiday’s that way for the past however many years now. It’s irrelevant though, because it’s not going to happen this year, or any year hereafter if he can help it. Definitely not going to happen.

“Real tree,” he suggests, and she smiles, immediately following his line of thinking. It lights up her eyes, her entire face, and he feels that warmth, that ease, return.

“Could be messy,” she tells him, fingers delicately and rather absently tracing the stem of her glass. “And it’s a bit wasteful, don’t you think?”

“A fake one it is then,” he decides. “But one that looks real.”

“If you say so,” she agrees, nodding slightly.

“I do,” he informs her, because he is entirely determined now. They are both going to enjoy Christmas this year, and they are going to enjoy it together.


	9. Ice

**Ice**

* * *

**Sunday 9th December**

He’s been grumbling about it all day. Increasingly so, as the hours have worn past, darkness has crept in and the nagging, aching pain has intensified. It’s his own fault really; if he’d had just a little more patience and waited for her, then he wouldn’t have been outside anyway. And he certainly wouldn’t have stepped on a patch of black ice and gone sprawling, flat on his back, on the cold, hard unforgiving driveway.

“Oh for God’s sake, Peter,” she finally sighs, exasperated, as he sits on the bed matching the few remaining errant socks and grumbling bad-temperedly. Putting the last of the neatly folded laundry away she stands, hands on her hips, and surveys him, shaking her head. “Just take your damn shirt off and lie down.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, his attention utterly, and very abruptly, diverted. She holds his gaze, maintaining the stare down, and, subjecting her to that slow and outrageously enticing smirk he’s just so, _so_ good at, he slowly and very deliberately unfastens each and every button while she watches.

Leaning back against the chest of draws, she folds her arms and resolutely keeps her eyes fixed on his. It’s something of a struggle, but she’s very determined. He’s ridiculously handsome though, and he bloody well knows it too. Exploits it, even. Eyes narrowing, she concentrates stubbornly on his face.

The shirt slides to the floor, pooling on the carpet in a whisper of cotton and he’s still smirking, dark eyes full of speculation as he views the way she is still observing, just as intently, but now with slightly more than a hint of interest as her resolve wavers, her gaze flickering away from his.

He reclines back on his elbows, steadily regarding her but she shakes her head, reminding herself of how insufferably grumpy he’s been today.                                                                                                                               

“Roll over,” she orders softly, finally approaching the bed. He does, but not without giving her another long and exceedingly tempting look. Sadly for him, it fails and she merely raises an eyebrow and picks up the moisturiser she keeps on her nightstand before crawling onto the bed beside him.

“Upper back or lower?” she asks, straddling him and rubbing her hands together to warm the lotion because she just knows he’ll complain like hell if it’s cold.

“Upper,” he murmurs as she expertly goes to work.

He’s very warm, and underneath his smooth skin she quickly finds the tender spots, the sore muscles and the knots that have lent him to such irritability all day. He groans deeply as her fingers work the tension loose, kneading out the pressure and the pain.

She’s so good at this, he thinks, thoroughly tranquil and languid now as she works her way down his neck and across his shoulders. Feeling muscles he didn’t even know were tense warm under her touch and ease into relaxation, he wonders where she learnt how, because there is something very practiced and very knowledgeable about the way she does what she does.

She’s found the spot where he hit the ground and her touch changes accordingly; there’s less pressure, her fingers are a lot gentler as they glide over his skin and he feels the twinging, aching, irritating soreness that has been plaguing him all day really begin to abate. It’s so soothing he feels like he’s sinking into the mattress, his muscles melting under her touch.

“Feeling better?” she enquires, leaning forward and gently pressing her lips to the back of his neck.

“You’re amazing,” he mumbles, face buried in the quilt.

She grins at the response. “Is that a yes then?” she laughs, sliding her hands lower, working her fingers into the muscles of his lower back, applying a deep and steady pressure that elicits a long, low groan of pleasure instead of an actual answer.

He wants to ask her how she got to be so good at this, but she’s found that spot that always gives him trouble when he sits for too long and whatever it is she’s doing to him feels so wonderful it completely overrides his thought processes.

He’s so relaxed now, so thoroughly comfortable that he’s starting to drift very pleasantly.

Grace feels the very last of the tension under her hands melt away and she grins wickedly to herself. Now that he’s pain free she changes her strategy, determined to pay him back for his earlier attempts to distract her.

Her touch alters, becomes lighter and a lot more investigative. Her fingertips ghost over his musculature, seeking all the sensitive places to tease and torment him. She leans down and kisses his shoulder, one hand skimming up over his neck so she can slide her fingers slowly and very deliberately into his thick, soft hair.

Completely immobile under her, he sighs and then lets out a soft snore.

Abruptly freezing, she stares down at him.

“Peter?” she queries, and then scowls when there is no response. He is absolutely sound asleep. Stunned, and just to make sure he isn’t playing with her, she pokes him in the arm. Hard. He merely turns his head and snores again.

Gazing down at him, amused but still exasperated, she sighs heavily. 

“Bloody typical,” she mutters, before resignedly giving in, curling up beside him and closing her eyes.


	10. Jingle Bells

**Jingle Bells**

* * *

**Monday 10th December**

She’s feeling decidedly irritable. Perhaps rather unjustly so, but she hates that particular song – can’t really ever remember not hating it – and Spence has been humming it under his breath _all bloody day_. It’s nearly six o’clock though, and she’s managed to be incredibly productive in the last few hours. Mainly because she's been avoiding contact with Spencer by hiding away in her office, reading her way through the copious quantities of information concerning Marcus Gregory. 

Out in the squad room, Spence and Kat are packing up for the day, and, sadly for her, the humming has now escalated into faint, but still rather grating, wholly overly eager and animated singing. From both of them. And what’s worse, they aren’t even singing the traditional and plentifully irritating version. No, they’re happily – and rather tunelessly – humming and mumbling their way through one of the many playground editions inevitably preferred by legions of wayward schoolchildren, no matter their age range.

Having had more than enough for one evening, she stalks irritably into Boyd’s office, frowning tetchily. “I’m going home,” she says, abruptly.

Startled by her tone, he closes the heavy legal tome in front of him and looks up, his attention firmly fixed on her.

Always perceptive, and particularly sensitive to any sort of tension where she is concerned, he immediately asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she mutters, feeling just a touch rebellious and entirely disinclined to discuss her feelings with him tonight.

It’s not his fault – in any way, shape or form – she’s just had a bad day. Nothing really seems to have fallen into place quite the way she wanted it to. Yes she got a lot done, but there was a snappy, demanding email from someone at the Home Office she is obliged not only to respond to, but also to placate, awaiting her when she arrived first thing this morning. And then, after dealing with that mess, she spilled her tea on the desk, ruined her notes and burned her fingers when, mid-morning and completely out of the blue, someone out in the hallway slammed a door with rather more than a strictly necessary amount of force and made her jump out of her skin. On top of that, seemingly just to annoy her further, her least favourite and much avoided cousin called this afternoon and informed her that she would be calling by tomorrow, disrupting her already quietly planned evening.

“I’m not falling for that one,” is the blunt reply. Boyd pointedly looks over at her and his expression leaves no doubt that he knows she is lying to him. And that he will get it out of her in the end.

That’s the trouble with having a relationship with someone who is equally as stubborn as she is, she thinks, ruefully. When they both take it upon themselves to determinedly stick to their opinions it can take days of aggravated pushing and pulling at each other before one or both of them eventually gives in.

She’s saved from answering though, because there is a knock at the door and Spencer sticks his head in, still humming. Grace grinds her teeth and says nothing, sinking peevishly into a chair when Boyd fixes her with a meaningful look before turning his attention to the DI.

“Sir, here’s William Marr’s prison records. He was definitely inside when three of the four murders happened, but so far we can’t account for his whereabouts when Karin Evans died. We’ll chase it up in the morning.”

“Thanks, Spence,” nods Boyd, taking the offered sheaf of papers. “See you tomorrow.”

“Sir.”

“Have a good evening,” Grace tells him, falsely cheerful.

“Night, Grace,” Spencer smiles at her, and then he’s gone. On the other side of the glass, Kat waves at them both before tossing Spence his coat and walking out with him, still discordantly singing along as she goes.

Temporarily distracted, Boyd is reading again, his eyes scouring the prison report and, sensing her chance, Grace quickly gets to her feet, still determined to leave. Sadly, she has no such luck.

“Grace? Grace, wait a moment!”

The papers are still in his hands, but he’s not looking at them. He’s watching her instead, rather intently and with an expression that’s partly curious, partly concerned, and unquestionably, entirely determined. “Are you going to tell me?”

“No,” she tells him, shaking her head slowly and firmly. She watches, rather regretfully though, as he deploys an old tactic. One that, unfortunately for her, works very well. Every single time.

Putting the report down, he rests his elbows on the desk, leans his head in his hands and simply gazes at her.

He’s got his desk lamp on instead of the glaring, utilitarian overhead lights and in the gloomy darkness of early evening the room is shadowy, faintly intimate. He’s still wearing his reading glasses too, but they’ve slid down his nose a little and as he regards her over the top the sleek, dark frames she can’t help but feel her insides start to melt a little, her resolve begin to crumble.

He knows it too, because his expression is changing again, and dear God, the look in his eyes…

Grace is caught in his stare; held firmly in the middle of the room by the powerful, tangled rush of thoughts, feelings and emotions suddenly flooding through her, threatening to consume her. Her frustration quickly fading, it’s only the knowledge that there are still people in the building that prevents her from closing the few feet of space between them and kissing him soundly. Soundly, deeply, entirely thoroughly, and most definitely repeatedly.

She clears her throat, fumbling for the stubborn willpower that is abruptly so absent. Grasping the very edge of it, she clings on tightly. “I’m going home,” she finally declares; firmly, boldly. Somehow she manages to tear her gaze away from his, turn and make her way back to the door. Gripping the frame in one hand, she looks over her shoulder at him. He’s still at his desk, still observing her. “Are you coming?”

By the time she’s collected her bag and turned out the lights, he is leaning against the wall waiting for her. Long, dark coat unfastened, his hands are deep in his pockets as he waits, eyes still keenly, intently fixed on her. Only now there’s that devilish, heart-stopping grin on his face too.


	11. Kids

**Kids**

* * *

**Tuesday 11th December**

The chaos is unbelievable. Grace can’t quite see how three small children can possibly be inflicting so much mess and noise on her formerly clean and organised home, but inflicting it they are. Exceedingly enthusiastically, too.

“They’re very lively,” Grace observes, trying for a considered level of civility, but quite sure she is failing miserably. Edith, her much-hated cousin and grandmother to the three small monsters, is oblivious. Naturally.

“Hmm…” she intones, delicately sipping her tea as cushions fly through the air and the older two of the three descend into a fierce tussle, rolling out of sight behind the sofa as they clash over ownership of a small toy car. Grace doesn’t dare look and see what the smallest one is up to.

“I had hoped they’d be quite worn out by now,” sighs Edith, “We’ve been to the history museum, and then they wanted ice-cream. In this weather! Can you imagine? Honestly!”

Grace can imagine quite easily. Edith takes another sip, still ignoring the devastation occurring around her, and then simply redirects the conversation. “Anyway, so tell me, Grace dear, how are you doing?”

She’s fishing, just like she always does and with a flash of clarity Grace knows exactly why Edith has suddenly turned up after over a year without any contact. Always the one relied upon to get to the heart of any and all gossip, someone in their large, extended family has commissioned her to come here today and dig deeper.

Incensed at the audacity of the move – she hasn’t heard from any of them in the long, hard months that have passed slowly, exhaustingly and painfully by, not even so much as a single phone call or email – she is momentarily speechless.

Recovering herself, she smiles meaninglessly and shrugs, rather disinterested. “I’m fine,” she nods, and gets to her feet. “Excuse me for a moment, please.”

Teeth clenched, Grace retreats to the kitchen and shuts the door, reaching for her mobile phone.

“Is she gone yet?” is the impatient and irked greeting she receives when the call connects.

“No,” she whispers, still furious, but desperate now, too. “I need rescuing, Peter. Please.”

* * *

The doorbell rings, closely followed by a loud, authoritarian and impatient knock. Extricating herself from the unrelenting melee, Grace makes her way to answer it and can’t help grinning when she finds herself face to face with a very irritable and incredibly official looking Detective Superintendent. Tall and broad shouldered, he fills the doorway easily. His expression is serious, stern and she immediately sobers, absolutely prepared to follow his lead.

From somewhere he’s appropriated a chunky black winter coat with the tell-tale white detailing and the big, bold lettering brashly proclaiming POLICE in no uncertain terms. She can’t help noticing that it fits him like a glove, and coupled with the frowning, forbidding look on his face, it gives him a slight air of danger, a hint of exciting power.

“Can I help you?” she asks, stepping back and allowing him to walk into the house. Boyd moves until he is clearly visible through the living room door.

“We’ve had reports of a disturbance,” he intones, voice deep and sombre, carrying easily above the cacophony. “The neighbour’s called it in, Doctor Foley, said something suspicious was going on and they thought you might be in danger.” He turns, and his gaze sweeps over the chaotic tangle of cushions and children, who miraculously freeze mid-whack, pillows abruptly completely stationary in mid-air as they gawp at the sudden appearance of a rather large and imposing policeman.

There’s a moment – just a moment – of frozen silence, and then very suddenly Edith is on her feet, mortified, blustering and trying very hard to justify the exuberance of the children.

“I’m so sorry Officer! They’ve had too much sugar, I’m afraid.”

Grace glances at Boyd, can see him bite back the automatic correction concerning his rank – a Detective Superintendent is hardly likely to be summoned to a simple house call, after all – and she hides her own smile as Edith somehow wrestles the older two apart and propels them forcefully in the direction of the front door.  

Her gaze flickers to Grace, desperately hoping for some help. Finding none, she offers a quick, “I’m so sorry Grace, but it’s time we were going.” Holding onto the two boys by the scruff of their necks as they swipe at each other, each trying to get the last punch in, she looks around for the third child.

“Lily?”

“Yes?” asks a sweet voice from above their heads. Lily, four years old and quite possibly part monkey, is clinging to the curtain rail, swinging back and forth with a ridiculously angelic grin on her face.

“Get down at once,” gasps Edith. “What _would_ your mother say?”

“That Granny lets us get away with far too much,” supplies the older boy, grinning helpfully.

* * *

The door shuts behind them all and Grace stands still, surveying the damage. It’s superficial really, nothing a few minutes of tidying won’t fix.

“Are all your family like that?” asks Boyd as she bends to pick up a cushion.

“A fair few,” she admits, straightening up and turning to look at him. “Thank you,” she adds. Now that peace has once again descended, she finds herself able to fully consider the uniform situation. It may only be one item of uniform, but it does fit him _very_ well.

Grace smirks at him.

“What?” he demands.

“Nice jacket,” she tells him, pausing for a moment and taking in his apparel with clearly blatant glee, before adding wickedly, slyly, “Officer!”


	12. Laughter

**Laughter**

* * *

**Wednesday 12th December**

She’s still laughing at him, he’s still glaring at her, and – sadly for him – the injured innocence of his expression is only fuelling her mirth all the more.

Admittedly, he is totally liable. He was the one who asked her if she had any old photographs from her childhood. He didn’t have to then regale her with the tale of one of his more unfortunate youthful indiscretions, and then provide the photographic proof when she failed to believe what undeniably was a rather outlandish and wildly implausible account. Still, he does find the enthusiasm with which she’s approaching the hilarity of the matter faintly disconcerting now.

“Grace!” he growls, voice low and suitably threatening as he attempts to reassert some control over the situation. It’s no use, and he watches with considerable disdain as she catches his eye and dissolves into fresh peals of laughter, clutching her aching ribs as tears roll steadily down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, breathlessly trying for some sort of contrition. She almost manages it too, until she makes the rather fundamental error of looking down at the photograph still clutched in her hand and the intended recovery of her composure vanishes. Entirely.

Glancing from him to the picture and back again, she finds she really can’t contain herself, despite the menacing glare being directed her way. He holds her gaze, his brows drawing irritably together as he stalks toward her, making a determined grab for the visual aid responsible for her seemingly endless merriment.

She ducks and twists away from him; smaller and lighter on her feet she makes it to the end of the kitchen and near escape before he’s suddenly, inexplicably there, blocking her path.

“Hand it over,” he demands, taking a strong and immovable stance in the doorway.

“No chance,” she cackles, and tries to squeeze past him.

“For God’s sake, Grace,” he growls, neatly catching hold of her and trying to wrestle the photo out of her hand.

She’s not going to give up, and she determinedly squirms in his grip, twisting her arm behind her back out of his reach. She thinks he might be about to though, because his firm grip has lessened, and when she takes a careful step back, she does so without resistance. She takes a deep breath, risks another look at the image still in her possession and suddenly finds herself lifted off her feet and sitting on the edge of the work surface, decisively trapped and minus the picture he has easily plucked from her grasp and stowed safely on top of the cupboards, out of her reach.

Damn the man, he really can move very quickly when he wants to.

“You don’t play fair,” she informs him, expression sadly dejected as she stares straight into his eyes, which are now level with hers.

He grins, utterly unrepentant, and leans forward, placing a brief kiss on her lips. “Now will you stop laughing?” he wants to know.

“I might,” she ponders, slyly wondering what he might be willing to trade in return for her not spending the rest of the evening smirking at him every time their eyes meet. He sighs in resignation, following her thought process perfectly.

“I was five, Grace. Five! The state of my hair was far beyond my control.”

“Did I say it wasn’t?” she asks, reaching up to comb her fingers slowly and gently through said locks, admiring the softness, the luxurious texture.

“No,” he admits slowly, watching the way her eyes betray her fascination. There is something about her eyes that has always been a dangerous weakness for him. They’re so expressive, so engaging. And right now, they are full of captivating interest and the kind of intense charm that makes him realise exactly how far under her spell he has fallen. Exactly how much he loves her and is willing to let her get away with. Even if she does laugh at him relentlessly on occasion.


	13. Music

**Music**

* * *

**Thursday 13th December**

There is music playing softly in the background and there are presents in various stages of the wrapping process spread across the coffee table. There is wine in the glasses, candles that have burned low as the evening passed into night, and a rich, warm, enticing atmosphere.

They, however, are completely oblivious.

It was his idea; a mid-week refuge from the real world, a repeat of the fabulously successful fireside evening from a few nights ago. She readily agreed.

She still agrees. As she lies on the blanket, gazing up at him and watching the shadows created by the flickering flames play across his skin, she completely, wholeheartedly agrees.

With the very tip of just one finger, she traces the edge of his beard. It’s a faint, delicate caress, and he can’t help shutting his eyes as his other senses take over. She sketches his eyebrows, his eyes, slowly down over the ridge of his nose and he feels his breathing alter, his pulse start to quicken. He hears her softly whisper his name, so quietly it is almost lost in the rich ambiance and character of the music washing over them, surrounding them. She maps the outline of his lips while her other hand slides across his back, over his shoulders; her fingers igniting that first wave of heated need, slowly building a blaze of powerful, consuming desire. Thoroughly ensnared in the storm of emotion, he looks down at her, losing himself in the endless, infinite depths of the eyes that are suddenly a dark cobalt blue as they focus earnestly on his own.

It’s warm, very pleasantly so, and the smouldering logs are crackling nearby. He can just detect a faint trace of red-wine in the air, along with the distinctive, warm aroma of the open fire and the alluring, seductive scent that belongs to her. Her fingers are tangling in his hair, threading through the thick strands and teasing the nape of his neck. He leans down, brushing his lips gently over hers; slowly, intensely and infinitely passionately, luxuriating in the heat of her skin against his own.

When he pulls back, her eyes catch and hold his, ensnaring every single fragment of his attention and it’s a moment so filled with resonating intensity, with such strong, powerful emotion and pure, elemental adoration that it quite literally steals the breath from his lungs. Her hair is dishevelled – entirely his fault – and strands of it are in danger of poking her in the eye. He brushes them away, his fingers tender, lingering over her temple. He feels as much as he sees her smile, and then he can’t see her at all as she pulls him to her, her lips seeking his yet again.

They are lost. Lost in a tangle of limbs and desperate, searing kisses. Lost in wandering hands that seek and explore, rouse and excite. Lost in words and whispers, promises and secrets. Lost in passion and need, in love and in lust. They are lost; firmly, permanently and irreversibly lost in each other.

In the quiet, intimate warmth of the room around them the fire is still blazing, the candles keep burning and the music continues to play, but they are still entirely, blissfully oblivious.


	14. Night

**Night**

* * *

**F** **riday 14th December**

She wakes quite abruptly, but for what reason she can’t fathom. It’s the middle of the night and the house is quiet, peaceful. She is warm, sleepy; hazily cosy under the nest of winter blankets. It’s very, very comfortable and she sighs softly, serenely.

It’s not quite pitch black in the room and beside her she can just make out the shadowy form of her best friend, her lover and the other half of her heart. He’s fast asleep, sprawled out on his front, long limbs haphazardly arranged with his head turned to the side, facing her. 

He’s warm and very still, utterly oblivious to her observation.

There’s a streak of moonlight falling through the curtains and tracing right across his face, highlighting his closed eye, casting shadows across the curve of his ear and illuminating the silvery strands of his hair. He’s as ridiculously handsome in sleep as he is awake, she thinks, idly watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. It’s comforting, relaxing.

She wonders if he knows just how much he means to her, how deeply and irretrievably she’s in love with him. How she has been for a long time now.

Settling more deeply into the pillows she listens to his breathing. It’s soft and rhythmic, soothing. It lulls her back into that sleepy, blissful state. She’s right on the precipice, the verge of falling back over into the abyss of slumber when he mumbles something unintelligible and moves slightly, sliding one strong, questing arm across the bed and wrapping it firmly around her, holding on tightly, possessively.

Her eyes slide shut once again and she smiles, tumbling effortlessly back into her dreams.


	15. Opinion

**Opinion**

* * *

**Saturday 15 th December**

“He says he’s not talking until his lawyer gets here,” Spence informs the pair of them before stalking off to phone said lawyer and see how soon he’s going to arrive. He’s been irritable and annoyed with Boyd since they were all summoned into work and evidently, despite the hours that have passed since the early Saturday morning phone call, he’s still not that keen to talk.

“He’s got a new girlfriend,” Grace tells Boyd as the door bangs loudly shut. “I think he had plans for the day.”

“So did I,” Boyd sighs as he looks through the glass at Brian Myers.

Grace allows a tiny sigh of her own, knowing full well what those plans involved and exactly how preferable they were to spending the day working. Still, there’s nothing quite like achieving justice for those who need it.

Redirecting her thoughts she carefully watches Myers, who is rapidly pacing the length of interview room; up and down, up and down, over and over again. He’s visibly trembling, too, and his eyes are darting from place to place, examining every inch of his surroundings as though he’ll find something there.

They stand quietly for a few minutes, observing as Myers continues to try and wear a path in the floor.

“This guy’s off his rocker,” mutters Boyd, shifting irritably from one foot to the other, utterly bored and frustrated with the wait. “Either that, or he’s an addict in need of his next hit,” he remarks. He shifts his gaze to Grace and raises an eyebrow as he questions, “Care to take a guess as to which?”

Grace leans back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest as she regards him steadily.

“We’ve been through this before, remember? I don’t guess.”

“Right, sorry! I know, I know…” he holds up his hands, trying to remember. “What was it again…? Oh yeah… ‘Informed views’! Well, Doctor Foley, would you like to give an informed view on this nutcase?”

“So you do listen to me then? On occasion?” She grins openly at him, and he smirks back, eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Always, Grace, always!”

“He’s not a nutcase; he’s nervous,” she declares, glancing back through the glass.

“You don’t think he’s a user?”

“No. Look at him Boyd! Expensive suit, watch, shoes, briefcase. Everything about him is very well-kept and polished. He’s hiding something, yes, I’ll agree with you on that but he’s a politician, how likely is he to engage in that sort of risk?”

“We’ve been through this before too, haven’t we – politicians are a psychologist’s nightmare and all that?”

“Absolutely. I’m impressed,” she tells him with entirely feigned seriousness and the look he gives her in return makes it very, very difficult to concentrate on the rest of what she has to say. She takes a deep breath and determinedly looks away from him, studiously concentrating on their suspect. “He’s a professional liar. He’ll probably tell you he was at home with the kids, getting ready for Christmas at the time of the murder, when instead he was out with his mistress.”

“Oh really? Not speculating a little there are you, Grace?” Boyd is still grinning at her, and it’s something of a struggle to keep a straight face as she replies, utterly deadpan,

“Professional opinion, Boyd! You asked for it.”

“Whatever you say, Grace, whatever you say!” he laughs.

* * *

“Why am I here?” Myers demands imperiously, as soon as Boyd opens the door and walks into the room.

Boyd ignores him and places four glossy 8x10 photos on the table. “Karin Evans, Kiera Hall, Lucy Smith and Harriet Linton, that’s why,” he replies calmly.

“I’ve never, to my knowledge, met any of them,” Myers declares smoothly, after making a show of studying each of the photographs in turn.

“I see,” replies Boyd. “Well, Kiera was murdered ten years ago with the business end of a hammer - six blows to the skull. She was an activist who caused a lot of trouble surrounding a controversial environmental proposal you were campaigning for. Karin and Lucy died, together, four years ago now when they fought against your plan to close public recreation areas in order to save money in your constituency. They were also bludgeoned with a hammer. Harriet Linton here,” he taps the most recent photo, staring right into Myers face, his eyes dark, angry and unyielding, “she died seven days ago – also by hammer. She was making a lot of noise about your tax proposal and cuts to funding for city park maintenance.”

Myers doesn’t blink, or even so much as twitch in response. He merely looks faintly bored, and that’s the moment when Boyd can feel his blood pressure starting to rise and with it the inevitable impulse to start bellowing. It’s always the cocky ones, the ones who think they’re too smart and have got away with it that grate on his nerves the most.

“Seven days ago it was Sunday, correct?”

“Yes,” replies Boyd, unsure where Myers is going.

“I was home all day with my children. We were decorating the Christmas tree and hanging the outdoor lights.”

Very slowly Boyd takes off his reading glasses and runs a hand through his hair, all the while staring incredulously at Myers.

“You’re not serious?” he asks, stunned.

The lawyer frowns. “My client has no reason to lie.”

Boyd shoots him a withering glare. “And can your client provide a witness to prove he was at home all day?”

“No,” admits Myers. “My wife was in Argentina at a conference.”

Boyd scans the file in his hands before looking up again. “You have a full-time nanny, don’t you?” he asks. “One who lives in? Can she not provide an alibi for your whereabouts?”

Myers is beginning to look uncomfortable. “No, she can’t.”

“Why? Surely if she was there and so were you, then she can give a statement to that effect?”

Myers looks desperately at his lawyer, who fixes Boyd with a rather beady-eyed stare.

“Detective Superintendent, this is all very entertaining, but do you actually have any evidence that requires an alibi from my client?”

Without a word Boyd hands over the pages of trace evidence test results Eve produced very late last night and that are responsible for dragging them all into work on a Saturday morning. The lawyer reads them carefully and purses his lips in consideration.

“Just tell him, Brian,” he advises at last.

Myers looks even more uncomfortable, but does as he is told. “My nanny can’t confirm I was home,” he confesses in a rush, as though saying the words faster will somehow make it easier, “because I wasn’t. I’ve been seeing another woman… and I was with her.”

* * *

The door opens and Boyd walks out, files in one hand and reading glasses in the other. His eyes zero in on her where she is still sitting by the window, observing and trying very, very hard not to laugh.

“Have you started reading tea-leaves?” he demands. She shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak.

His eyes say it all; he absolutely cannot believe what he’s just heard.

“How did you know?” he pushes, because he’s damned if he’s going to let her get away with this one. There are indeed a great many things he would let her get away with, but not this. She keeps her lips sealed, shakes her head again. If she tries to speak, she won’t be able to stop the laughter. He takes a single step towards her and then stops, standing very still. His eyes are narrowed, his attention entirely fixed on her. It’s a very good thing that they are not at home, she thinks, because she knows exactly what he would do to her to try and make her talk if they were.

“Come on, out with it,” he insists, and she just has to take pity on him and the desperate curiosity in his eyes. It takes several deep, steadying breaths, but eventually she thinks she has enough self-control in hand.

“Years of experience,” she slowly explains, before an impish grin spreads across her face and she can’t stop herself from adding, “and perhaps just the tiniest little bit of educated guesswork!”


	16. Pudding

**Pudding**

* * *

**Sunday 16th December**

“What about Christmas pudding?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Why?”

“It’s disgusting.”

“No it isn’t.”

“It bloody _is_!”

“Okay, okay. But what about –”

“No!”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes I do. And the answer is still no.”

“But –”

“No!”

“Fine!”

“Whatever you say.”

_“As if_!”

“You’re just _so_ funny, aren’t you?”

“Seriously, what if –”

“I said no. Forget it.”

“But if –”

“It’s not going to happen!”

“Oh, you’re no fun.”

“Really? You want to go down that road now, do you?”

“No.”

“Fine!”

“Fine! Whatever!”

“Whatever? What are you, fifteen?”

“If I was, that would make you –”

“I'm well aware of that, thank you!”

“You started it!”

“I did not!”

“Did too!”

“You are _so_ annoying!”

“Good!”

“For God’s sake! How did we even get on to this?”

“I told you –”

“No, stop!”

“Why?”

“Because I really don’t want to hear it.”

“You’re not interested in what I have to say?”

“Most of the time, yes. But right now, I’d much rather just kiss you.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? That’s your considered opinion, is it?”

“Yes.”

“God, you’re so difficult, you know that?”

“It’s an art form.”

“No kidding!”

“Hey!”

“Ouch. What was that for?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

“Yes.”

“ _Honestly_!”

“Are you going to answer me or not?”

“No chance!”

“But –”

“I thought you were going to kiss me?”

“I was.”

“But…?”

“I may have changed my mind.”

“Fine. Good night.”

“What do you mean, fine? What are you doing?”

“Going to sleep.”

“I said ‘may’, not ‘have’!”

“Too late!”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!”

“You’re absolutely impossible, do you know that?”

“Yes, you’ve already told me.”

“Actually, I said ‘you’re so difficult’.”

“Don’t be pedantic.”

“Why not?”

“Oh for… Good night!”

“You already said that.”

“And I meant it.”

“That’s too bad…”

“Why?”

“Because I’m still going to kiss you!”

…


	17. Question

**Question**

* * *

**Monday 17 th December**

Questions. Endless, inquisitive questions. Investigative, thoroughly curious and relentlessly aimed at her, all evening long.

It started at work, when a lawyer showed just the slightest bit too much interest in her and asked why she chose to become a psychologist. Since then, he can’t ask enough. It’s as though he suddenly realised he doesn’t know everything he thinks he ought to know, and more.

Her favourite colour, book and film. Her childhood pets. Broken bones, oldest friend, most terrifying memory. Best holiday, deepest fear, favourite ice-cream flavour. Has she ever held a stick-insect, or hit someone in a fit of rage? Cats or dogs? Weirdest date, best concert, hidden talents. The list goes on and on, and he’s listened attentively and absorbedly to every single answer, drinking in the details, utterly fascinated. It’s been hours now, and he’s still going, still desperate to know absolutely everything about her.

It lasts through dinner, the handful of evening chores they just can’t avoid and keeps on as they settle in the living room, he sprawled the length of the sofa and she draped sideways across the armchair, legs swinging idly as she sips her wine and watches him take in all the information he’s suddenly so greedily coveting.

“Don’t you have any questions?” he eventually asks, pausing to watch her curiously. Grace shakes her head slowly.

“No, I know everything I need to know about you, Boyd.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she confirms lazily and she watches the way he mulls that over, can see his mind ticking from across the room.

“No questions,” he murmurs, still stuck on that thought.

“Well,” she muses, thinking aloud. “I do have one question –”

“Yes?” he seizes on her words, instantly wanting to know. She shakes her head gently, apologetically.

“But I’m not going to ask it,” she concludes.

He sits up, curiosity provoked. “Why not?”

She slowly shakes her head again, gazing wistfully at him. “Because I don’t want to know the answer.”

He looks incredibly confused and she really can’t blame him, but she’s not willing to explain herself, not even to him.

“Why on earth not?”

“Because I don’t!” she sighs, knowing he won’t let this rest and wishing that she had kept her mouth shut. He’s quiet for a long time, pondering the concept.

He knows her. He knows her very well, and he also knows that she knows almost everything there is to know about the way his mind works. She reads him like a book, most of the time. Which begs the question, what on earth could she want to find out that she couldn’t just deduce from knowing him as well as she does? What does she think she couldn’t possibly predict his answer to?

“Is it really complicated?” he asks, wary of a long, convoluted psychological analysis or assessment. She picks up on his train of thought immediately and smiles fondly.

“No. It’s very simple, actually. A yes or no answer.” She stretches and slides deeper into the cushions of the chair, sleepy and very comfortable, but still very much awake and engaged in the conversation.

“Why don’t you just ask me then? If it’s so simple?” He can’t for the life of him fathom why she would be wary of asking him anything, not when they already share everything. And she is wary – he can sense the faint trace of fear in her that the conversation is eliciting.

“I told you,” she sighs, “I don’t want to know the answer.”

He can’t make it out, and he falls silent again for a long, long time, lying back against the arm of the sofa, deep in contemplation and trying – for the life of him – to figure out whatever it is that could cause her such caution, apprehension and avoidance. Eventually though, an idea occurs to him and, slightly incredulous, but simultaneously thoroughly enchanted by the concept, he props himself up on an elbow, staring thoughtfully at her.

“Grace?”

“Hmmm…” her voice is soft, hazy. She’s started to drift slightly in the quiet peace of late evening.

“What if you already knew the answer was yes? Would you ask me then?”


	18. Reading

**Reading**

* * *

**Tuesday 18 th December**

He’s been distracted all day. Honestly and legitimately, in his opinion, but distracted none the same. Really, it’s been something of a problem. She, however, doesn’t seem to be having the same issue.

She’s reading. Tucked behind her desk and concentrating intently on what appears to be a very large book, her glasses have slipped down her nose slightly and she’s resting her chin on her hands, fingers laced together. It’s a very endearing image. One that’s been holding his attention for quite some time now.

He can’t get it out of his mind, can’t get her out of his mind. Not since last night. It irritates him, but he’s been obsessing more than just a little over her unasked question. He’s fairly sure he knows what it is, fairly sure he’s correctly worked it out, and he really, really wants to answer her.

The thought has crossed his mind that _he_ could just ask _her_ , but he can’t quite get the idea out of his head that _she_ wants to ask _him_. And want to ask the question she definitely does, he can tell. She’s just afraid of asking and the answer not being what she wants, what she hopes. He’d tell her the folly of her thoughts, but he knows she won’t ask that either. It’s a shame. The answer has been set in stone for a long time now; he just hasn’t given thought to the question before. On reflection, it seems rather a silly oversight on his part. 

He finds the whole concept very appealing. And rather wonderful. He never thought he would even entertain the idea again, but then, he’d never considered a life with her until not too long ago, either. Oh, he thought about her – a lot more that he probably should have – but until this last year he assumed it was all just a fantasy, an impossible dream. Now though, he’s beginning to realise there are a lot of things he had previously consigned to the scrap heap of life that just maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty in declaring impossibilities after all. And this is very definitely one of them.

He wonders again about taking the question out of her hands and turning it around on her, asking her himself. But it wasn’t his idea, and that thought stops him from taking it any further. Besides, they are so different, the pair of them, that he thinks it rather fitting that the idea is hers, that the question should come from her.

She’s taking notes now and his gaze is drawn to her deeply lost in thought expression. He can’t see her eyes, but he could close his own and describe exactly the look in hers as she focuses so intently. He wonders what she’s thinking about, what psychological problem she’s unpicking and translating into plain English for the rest of them. She idly rubs the back of her neck, as though the muscles there are tense and sore, and he frowns, wondering if she’s in pain. It’s too bad he can’t go in there and work the tension out for her. Her skin would be so warm and soft under his hands, and there’s a spot just behind her ear that if he kisses makes her –

There’s a loud, impatient knock on his office door and he almost jumps out of his skin, startled cleanly and abruptly out of his thoughts.

Eve saunters into the room. Guiltily, he looks up at her, trying very hard to keep his expression from giving him away. It’s a lost cause, probably, given the way Eve is smirking at him, having obviously seen the direction he has just been gazing in and immediately put two and two together. She’s annoyingly perceptive that way.

“Yes?” he asks, irritably.

Eve’s smirk only widens as she hands him a sheet of paper. “No match on Myers DNA, I’m afraid,” she says, brightly.

Boyd scowls. It’s not exactly unexpected news, but it’s not helpful either. “Anything else?” he wants to know.

Eve shrugs. “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. He could have paid someone to watch them,” she pauses, grinning mischievously, before adding more seriously, “and then kill them.” She casually digs her hands into her pockets, trying very hard not to laugh at the haughty glare coming her way.

“Stick to the science Eve,” Boyd advises impatiently. “Leave the theories and the supposition to the rest of us.”

“No problem,” she smirks. “You are, after all, very well trained in the art of observation.” With precision timing, her mobile starts to ring, the sound shrill and grating in the stony silence.

“That’ll be the lab,” Boyd tells her coolly, “calling to say how much it misses you.”

“Better answer then, hadn’t I,” she replies, heading for the door, heavy laughter trailing in her wake.

Boyd sighs and sinks back into his chair, still frowning at the page of DNA results. He should tell Grace, she’ll want to know. So will the others.

He wonders how he can get her to ask the question. So he can answer it. He wants to see the expression on her face, wants to see the emotion in her wonderfully expressive eyes.

His mind picking up on his musings once more, he feels his gaze drawn back to the window. Not much has changed.

Grace is still reading. And he’s still obsessing.


	19. Stockings

**Stockings**

* * *

**Wednesday 19 th December**

It’s very late and once again it is just the two of them left down in the bunker, burning the midnight oil. This time it is his office they are holed up in, sitting side by side at the table as they pore over the notes together. There’s no wine, and no coffee either. Only lemon and ginger tea which he flat out refused and she made just to annoy him.

“Where did you disappear to at lunch time? I thought we were supposed to be going out?” she asks as they rearrange the series of photographs on the surface in front of them, hoping to find some inspiration.

He gets to his feet, disappearing behind his desk and extracting something from one of the draws before returning. “I had an errand to run,” he admits, and hands her a dark, unmarked plastic bag. “And I might, perhaps, have forgotten I said I’d take you out.”

She looks from the bag in her hands, to his sheepish, guilty expression and shakes her head in amusement.

“Are you going to have a look?” he asks impatiently, and his eyes are twinkling with mischief as he perches on the edge of the table. She eyes him with a touch of apprehension for a moment, before gingerly opening the top of the bag and peering inside. It’s gloomy in the office though, and she can’t tell what she’s looking at.

“It won’t bite,” grins Boyd and Grace glances at him again, raising an eyebrow and not at all sure she should trust him quite as much as she does. Evidently, he’s clearly following her line of thought though, because he simply grabs the bottom of the bag, upends it and dumps the contents onto the table between them.

It appears to be a pile of fabric. That’s her first impression, anyway. Until he reaches out and separates the pile into two distinct shapes.

Stockings. Handmade, intricate and beautifully detailed. One for her, and one for him.

“You can’t have a fireplace without stockings, Grace,” he tells her with a shrug. “And since we decided…” He trails off and she just knows he’s thinking of the same thing she is, probably in just as much startlingly vivid detail too. Because of the magic of the open fire, they last night unanimously decided that Christmas would be spent at his house. Together. In the living room. With the fire going.

She touches the nearest stocking, finds smooth, soft material, the tiny irregularities of individual stitches and the different textures of a patchwork of varying fabrics that together create a winter scene of snow-capped mountains and flying reindeer. It’s a work of art.

Looking up, she stares at him, overwhelmingly touched by his thoughtfulness.

“Am I forgiven for forgetting lunch?” he asks, his gaze settling on hers. He reaches for her, runs the tips of his fingers through her hair, his thumb lingering on her temple. She sighs at the sensation and smiles softly at him. Getting to her feet, she moves to stand in front of him, slides her arms around his neck.

“Am I allowed to get a little sentimental?” she asks, and he shakes his head slowly, arms coming to rest around her waist, hugging her against his body.

“Absolutely not,” he warns and she just keeps smiling, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.


	20. Tree

**Tree**

* * *

**Thursday 20 th December**

He should have been home a long time ago now, and she’s beginning to get faintly worried as she shuts the oven door and puts the tray of mince pies Spence spent the day begging her to make on the side to cool. She gives them an experimental poke, unaccustomed to baking in a strange oven, and then, satisfied they are up to scratch, wonders if she should call him and find out if he’s okay.

She’s probably worried for no reason. After all, it’s more than likely he’s just wrapped up in whatever it was he was doing when she left the bunker earlier and hasn’t thought to check the time. Yeah, that’ll be it. These things usually have simple explanations. Still, she’ll give him five more minutes and then call, just to make sure.

Mind made up, she glances around the kitchen to make sure she’s tidied everything properly. She knows he wouldn’t be in the slightest bit bothered, but there is still something that nags at her when she uses his kitchen, no matter how familiar they are with each other. She suspects – hopes – it will pass, but she still feels just a little like an intruder here in his neater, tidier and far less disorganised workspace.

The front door suddenly bangs open, startling her. There are a few moments of scuffling, a single, angry and most definitely unrepeatable exclamation, and a blast of freezing cold air that rushes into the room and immediately makes her shiver.

“Grace?” he shouts, and his voice is oddly muffled.

“Yes?” she inquires, curiously. Abandoning the tea towel still in her hand, she ventures off to investigate.

“Help!” is the just as stifled but desperate plea. She finds him halfway through the door, quite literally jammed between the frame and an enormous cardboard box he has evidently attempted to carry through at the same time as he himself tried to enter.

If only she had a camera.

Immediately banishing the thought and clamping her lips tightly together to prevent herself from exploding into fits of laughter at his predicament, she simply grabs hold of the end of the long box and pulls with all her strength.

Nothing happens.

She pulls again, but both Boyd and the box remain stubbornly stuck.

“What on earth is it?” she asks, giving up on the box and tugging on his arm instead.

“Christmas Tree,” he wheezes, trying to force his way inside. His efforts achieve only a pained grimace and another round of expletives.

“Stop moving,” Grace orders, examining both the box, and why it appears to be refusing to move. “Look – the strap is caught on the lock.” She’s right, he realises, noticing the way one of the tight plastic packing bands that are holding the box closed has snagged on the metal plate of the locking mechanism. “Stop trying to force it, and just back up,” she suggests. Boyd growls at the cheerfully helpful suggestion, but does as she says anyway. Again, nothing happens. He’s put so much effort into trying to force his way inside that both he and the box are well and truly wedged.

He lets out a long, exasperated sigh. So much for sheer bloody-minded determination. He risks a glance a Grace. She’s doing a good job of suppressing her amusement, and mercifully hasn’t started laughing at him yet, but the beginnings of a truly epic smirk are slowly creeping into the edges of her mouth and her eyes are sparkling with unfiltered glee.

“Great,” he mutters resentfully, “just great!” She’s amused – yet _again_ at his expense – he’s most definitely stuck, and to top it all off, his ribs are really starting to protest at the way the box is digging uncomfortably into them.

Suddenly, without any warning at all, Grace throws her entire bodyweight against the end of the box. There’s not much of her, but evidently there’s enough, and for just a moment he feels a sharp but fleeting stab of pain, but then the box is gone and he’s toppling forward, throwing his arms out to catch himself before he slams face first into the wall.

Problem solved! Perhaps not quite like how he might’ve hoped, but all credit to her, she has freed him from his temporary prison. The smirk seems to be getting bigger.

Straightening up, he stomps back outside to fetch the box from the bottom of the steps where it has finally come to rest. Dragging it back into the house, he slams the door shut with irritable exuberance and turns, hands on his hips, to glare at the tree.

“Bloody thing,” he mutters resentfully, before shrugging out of his coat, jacket and shoes and then wrestling the box back into his arms and propelling it forcefully into the living room.

Knowing exactly what’s going to happen next, Grace fetches a pair of scissors before following him and handing them over so he can cut away the stubborn packing straps, slice open the heavy industrial tape and reveal the treasure hidden within.

“Oh,” she whispers in delight, as the cardboard falls away and the many pieces inside become visible. “Where did you manage to find it?”

Last weekend, at his insistence, they went looking for a tree. Still determined that this year they would celebrate Christmas traditionally and together, he dragged her around various shops for hours while they dismissed tree after tree as too big, too small, too ugly or far too unrealistic. The very last candidate they found, shoved in a corner and half hidden behind a row of fake snow-covered monstrosities, was immediately and unanimously declared perfect, aside from the outrageously oversized nature of it. Predictably enough, all the other sizes were sold out.

The look on her face makes it worth all the effort. He smiles easily and puts the scissors on the table, out of the way. “I ordered it, and then drove halfway across the bloody city to pick it up. I didn’t think the box was going to fit into the car though.”

“It’s in a million pieces,” Grace observes as they pull a never-ending series of parts out of the box, spreading it all out on the floor. “It’s going to take forever to put together.”

Boyd shrugs. “How hard can it possibly be?”

* * *

He’s changed from his suit into a considerably more comfortable pair of very old and well-worn jeans and a black t-shirt that fits like a glove, but is very soft and equally as comfy. They’ve eaten dinner, dispensed with the box and the rest of the packaging, and are attempting assembly.

“What kind of moron wrote these instructions?” demands Boyd, furiously squinting at the unintelligible lines of supposedly plain English that are continuing to mystify him. Quietly, Grace hands him his reading glasses, hoping they will make something of a difference to the chaotic tangle of branches, screws and oddly shaped bits of metal that may, possibly, eventually form a base of some kind.

They don’t appear to help.

Wisely, she refrains from offering to read them herself.

“Screw the instructions!” he declares forcefully a few minutes later, crumpling the pages into a ball and lobbing them across the room in only the vague direction of the waste paper basket.

Grace raises an eyebrow, and at the resulting look she receives over the top of the glasses he is still wearing, she decides it might be an appropriate moment to go and make a cup of tea. Leave him to get on with it in peace. It may be something of a mistake though, because as she secures the tea cosy over the pot and leaves it to brew, a deafening roar echoes throughout the house.

Standing in the doorway, she leans heavily on the frame in a desperate attempt to keep herself on her feet as she clutches her ribs and succumbs to the temptation to laugh uproariously at the sight of Boyd – all six feet of him – feverishly hopping up and down on one foot while clutching the other in enraged fury and prising the sharp tip of a screw loose from his big toe.

Biting back the quick comment on her lips about the dangers of going barefoot when attempting such obviously hazardous tasks as he turns angrily in her direction, she quickly scurries back out of the room to wait out the storm.

* * *

Twenty minutes, a mince pie and considerable clattering but no further swearing from living room later, she ventures back in with the tea and is suitably impressed to find the base fully constructed and readily awaiting the tree trunk.

“I’m impressed,” she tells him, setting their mugs on the coffee table. His answering expression is just a tad smug as he secures the sections of the trunk together and then fastens it in to the base. Looking at the piles of numbered branches, she can’t help wondering aloud, “I don’t understand why these aren’t already attached though.”

“You and me both, Grace,” he sighs, taking a long sip of tea before eyeing the pile in resignation. “I’ve never heard of such a ridiculous thing. We’d better start at the bottom though – can you see number one?”

Obligingly, she hunts through the heap of spiky, prickly stems and begins to hand them over one by one. Slowly – very slowly – the construction before them begins to resemble an actual tree. They are about halfway through the painstaking process of attaching each and every limb when Boyd suddenly growls, “I’m never taking this bloody thing apart – it can go up in the loft whole. I don’t care how many black bags I have to wrap it up in.”

She agrees, but refrains from pointing out that it’s highly unlikely that the tree will fit through the trap door in its fully complete state. She’s quite happy to leave that bridge well enough alone until they absolutely have to cross it.

It’s nearly an hour later before, at long last, the very last branch is attached and they can stand back and take in the full effect.

“It’s beautiful,” Grace says, leaning against him and resting her head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

It really is; taller than him by a foot or so, it’s rather majestic and grand as it stands proudly beside the fireplace. If it’s listing very slightly to one side, she isn’t going to mention it as they stand there and admire their efforts. His arms wrap around her waist, gently tugging her to stand in front of him and he lowers his head to rest beside hers, his lips trailing delicately over her ear for a moment.

Grace sighs and leans further back into his warmth. His arms tighten instinctively and he nuzzles her neck gently, slowly. Tilting her head back, she finds and captures his lips with her own, lingering blissfully. Without breaking the kiss, she turns her back on the tree – suitably distracted from its impressive splendour – until she can wind her arms firmly around his neck and thread her fingers deep into the thick, soft strands of his hair. His hands are wandering, and when she feels his fingertips work their way beneath her sweater and glide across her back, tracing lightly over her spine she can’t stop a gasp from escaping as she arches firmly against him.

His lips are moving, working their way down her neck and she’s about to suggest they forget all about the tree and move upstairs when there’s an ominous thud somewhere behind her and a roar of frustration from him. She doesn’t have time to question anything though, because quite suddenly she’s flying through the air – definitely his fault – there’s the distinctive sound of ripping fabric and then a terrific crash. There’s no chance to be afraid either, because just seconds later she slams unceremoniously into the sofa, the soft cushions breaking her fall rather admirably.

For a moment, she is simply too stunned to do anything. Reality reasserts itself fairly quickly and she sits up, taking a quick inventory. She’s a little winded, but nothing hurts and nothing seems to be broken.

“Peter?” she asks, looking around in confusion. He’s vanished and the tree has toppled over – now prone beside the coffee table, it has somehow missed anything important and landed exactly where they were standing moments before.

Getting slowly and carefully to her feet, she calls his name again, anxiety creeping up on her when there is no response. Cautiously making her way towards the fallen tree she yelps and leaps backward in shock when it moves, violently shoved to the side as he emerges from beneath it, loudly and stridently voicing his displeasure.

He’s stands up and she really can’t help but take in just thoroughly dishevelled he is. It’s quite… delightful. His hair is in utter, tantalising disarray, there’s a long – but thankfully very faint – scratch down his temple and his t-shirt is ripped, magnificently exposing the skin of his ribs and abdomen beneath it.

He seems relatively unharmed, and so Grace simply stands there admiring the view, waiting for the inevitable explosion. He looks down at the fallen tree and roars into a fit of temper, predictably, absolutely and magnificently livid. She has to wonder, too, if she should be enjoying the show quite as much as she is, as he forcibly wrestles with the stubborn bush, his anger all too evident.

Trunk tucked back into the base, she finds herself keeping a steadying hold on it as Boyd vanishes once more, on his hands and knees as he tries to coerce the legs into properly supporting the thing. Maintaining her grip on the tree, she looks down and finds herself with a rather spectacular denim-clad view. She grins, and keeps on looking.

Half buried under the decoration he was originally so enthused about but has now come to think non-too kindly of, Boyd discovers the source of the trouble appears to be a missing screw, which, really, is absolutely just _so_ typical. He’s seriously considering hauling the entire contraption outside and taking a chainsaw to it when he remembers the earlier assault on his toe and fishes the errant screw from his pocket, grimly twisting it into place, before daring to hope that all might now – finally – be well. Backing slowly out from under the prickly branches, he tests the whole thing firmly, and is amazed, and thoroughly relieved, when nothing happens. The tree stays standing. It’s even bolt upright, too.

It’s about damn time.

“You can let go now,” he tells her, getting to his feet and standing beside her once more. “It’s not going anywhere.”

“You’re sure about that, are you?” she needles.

“Very!” he retorts, glaring determinedly at her. She’s smirking at him, and for a moment he wonders why, but then he follows her gaze, taking in the state of his attire.

“I liked this shirt,” he sighs, fingering the torn edges in dismay. “It’s so comfortable.”

“Mmm, I liked you in it too,” agrees Grace, as a sudden, wildly mischievous thought takes her firmly in its grip. “But,” she continues, winding her fingers into the damaged fabric, “I like you even better out of it!”

She pulls, hard. Ripping the cotton in one long, swift tug, she tears it cleanly from his body, grinning in feral delight at the stunned look in his eyes. Time seems to stand still for a moment as he stares at her, categorically speechless, and then, very abruptly, he’s lunging for her. This time though, she’s too quick for him and, absolutely expecting his reaction, she’s out of the room and sprinting for the stairs before he even realises she’s gone. His shock doesn’t last long of course, and a second later he’s after her, bare feet thundering up the steps in her wake as her laughter echoes around them.

* * *

It’s very dark and quiet in their room now, the only audible sound their breathing as they snuggle together, hopelessly entwined in the middle of the bed. His fingers are idly stroking through her hair and her head is resting on his chest where she can feel the soothing rhythm of his calming heartbeat.

A thought occurs to him, but he’s too warm and hazy and still far too blissfully happy to be anything more than amused by it.

“Grace?” he murmurs, gently kissing the top of her head.

“Mmm?” She’s tranquil. Very, very languid. Absolutely disinclined to care about anything in the world but this moment right now.

“I just thought of something,” he continues, tugging the blankets closer around them both.

“What?” She snuggles further into him, clearly on the very edge of slumber.

“We got the tree, but we forgot the bloody ornaments!”


	21. Under the Mistletoe

**Under the Mistletoe**

* * *

**Friday 21st December**

It’s getting somewhere close to stupidly late when Boyd finally makes his way back into their underground lair after spending the day cooped up in a conference room with Kat, Spence and a host of other officers attending a training seminar of questionable use but professional requirement. His team has scattered into the night, nothing useful has been accomplished today and his back is twinging very unpleasantly from the extended sitting, listening and note-taking. Accordingly, he’s not in the best of moods.

As he heads for Grace’s office, he wonders how easy it might be to convince her to work her magic on his tired, aching muscles. To his disappointment though, she’s not there. The entire squad room is dark and very quiet, as though no one has been working in it for some time. Changing direction, he heads for the lab, betting the odds are likely he’ll find her there – he knows her car is still outside, so she hasn’t left yet. And he’s well aware that when the rest of the gang are out, Grace and Eve naturally gravitate towards one another; he’s caught them with their heads together and silly grins on their faces often enough to know that they get up to plenty of mischief behind his back, and he’s absolutely, categorically sure that he does _not_ want to know whatever it is that they gossip about.

Pausing in the doorway of the lab, three things catch his attention. The first is that Grace seems to be alone, working quietly at a table with books and files spread around her, and that she hasn’t noticed him arrive. The second thing is the soft music playing in the background and the way she is humming along, swaying very slightly in her chair as she reads – he seems to have caught her in a very quiet, unguarded moment and her relaxed obliviousness makes him smile in simple affection, makes some of the day’s tension instantly drain out of him. The third thing is composed entirely of potential naughtiness, and is thus naturally begging to be taken advantage of. Immediately.

Leaning easily against the open door, he says casually, “Why are you still here?”

Grace glances up at him and smiles softly. “Too much to do and no one to go home to,” she shrugs, leaning back in her chair and stretching slightly.

“Where’s Eve?” he wants to know, watching as she caps her pen and puts it down, closing the file in front of her.

“Gone looking for something in the archives,” Grace yawns, getting slowly to her feet. “How was the seminar?”

His brows draw together, a trace of irritation returning to his expression and she shakes her head, understanding. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” he tells her gloomily, holding a hand out to her. “Come here for a second?” he asks, a hopeful expression on his face.

She is immediately quizzical, wary. “Why?” 

He just smiles at her, head resting on the doorframe as his eyes glint with a hint of something she knows very well, something that looks a lot like trouble and the sort of intended bad behaviour she is sadly very fond of but knows far better than to trust. But it’s late, and while he’s undoubtedly not had the best kind of day, they are not alone in the building and therefore she has no reason to suspect he might have anything inappropriate in mind.

She’s a couple of feet away from him when he reaches out a hand to her again, and with an inquisitive frown she takes it in hers, wondering what he’s up to. Eve could come back at any moment, and while Grace suspects that their resident pathologist has her suspicions about the nature of the relationship between the two of them, so far she has no empirical proof to back up her hypothesis. And Grace has no intention of giving her any.

He’s smiling at her. It’s not good for her equilibrium. At all. Or her ability to maintain rational thought. Really, she thinks, as she draws closer to him, that smile of his is something else. It’s charming, it’s enticing and it’s dangerously good at convincing her to follow his lead. His fingers are wonderfully warm and secure, wrapped tightly as they are around her own. She allows a tiny sigh to escape, and wonders if he’s willing to leave now or if he wants to stay behind, working away into the small hours to catch up on whatever it is the seminar has caused him to miss. Her thoughts are interrupted though, when he gently tugs until she’s close enough that he can slip his arms around her and pull her flush against him.

“Boyd,” she protests softly. “Eve –”

“Is in the archives, like you said – she’ll be gone for ages,” he interrupts easily, thoroughly unworried. And then he’s kissing her, and just like that she’s not worried anymore either.

His lips are warm, soft and very intent as they thoroughly explore hers. She feels the fingers of his hand comb through her hair and brush gently over her cheek, before sliding slowly across her shoulder and down. She shivers, his touch sending a light tremor along the length of her spine as she gives in to temptation and wraps her arms around him.

His fingers are deftly unbuttoning the stark white lab coat, allowing his hands to reach beneath and settle on her waist. It’s only momentary though, because then they are curving warmly around her body, up and across her back, pulling her closer, tighter. And Grace can’t help pressing herself against him, wanting to feel his body along the length of hers.

He’s nuzzling her neck now, and Grace is fighting to keep a clear head, to voice the only pressing thought in her mind. She manages, but only just. “We should go,” she murmurs to him, her voice soft, slightly hoarse.

“We should,” he agrees, tone equivalently low and deep, but he makes no move toward doing so. He’s distracted by the way she’s kissing him again, by the very familiar taste of her lips on his and the delightful intensity of the way she’s exploring, the way she’s slowly but incredibly adeptly setting all of his senses of fire.

He feels her pull back and growls slightly in irritation, but she just smiles, her eyes full of wicked promise, and then she takes his hand again, small, slender fingers tugging insistently as she nods toward the door. “Let’s go home, Peter.”

* * *

Hidden in the shadows, silent and unnoticed until now, Eve smirks gleefully to herself as her long-standing suspicions are finally, unconditionally confirmed. She watches the happy couple depart with a very knowing glint in her eye as she glances, amused, at the sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling above the spot where they were standing just moments before.


	22. Velvet

**Velvet**

* * *

**Saturday 22 nd December**

Unbelievably, it’s snowing. Thick, fluffy white flakes that are not only coming down in heavy flurries, but are also sticking to the ground and accumulating rapidly. And somehow, as they’ve spent the day separately tackling a host of necessary chores in their respective homes, neither of them have managed to notice the change in the elements until it’s far too late.

The imperious summons of the telephone and his blunt, “Have you looked outside recently?” is her first clue that something might be wrong. The following quick glance out of the window that rapidly turns into a long, wondering stare confirms the problem.

“Oh,” she murmurs, gazing out at the completely white world on the other side of the glass. “That’s a lot of snow.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m looking out at the street and I can’t even see the road.” There’s a long pause, and she studies the thick coating covering her car, trying not to say what she knows is coming. He gives in long before she does, “I hate to say it, but you shouldn’t be driving in this.”

“Peter, I –”  

“No, Grace!” There’s unyielding finality in his tone that tells her there is no room for discussion, and unfortunately, he’s right. “It’s too dangerous – promise me you won’t try and drive over here.”

“But –”

“Promise me, Grace!” The hard, demanding tone is a cover, and she knows it. He’s just as unhappy with the situation as she is, so she agrees and resigns herself to spending the rest of the evening alone.

It’s an odd feeling, making dinner for one and eating by herself in her strangely quiet kitchen. One she realises she has very quickly and easily become unaccustomed to. There’s no one to mutter and gripe about the onerous task of sorting freshly laundered socks, or to reach the highest corners of the room with the duster without the need of a chair or stepladder. There’s no one to flick soap bubbles at her as she does the washing up, or to bicker with over the choice of television channel.

Such ordinary, everyday things she has adjusted so easily to sharing suddenly fill her with loneliness at the thought of all the years she spent doing them alone. It’s ridiculous, she thinks, annoyance rising with both herself and the miserable direction of her thoughts – after all the years of solitude, she is not going to let one night bother her. She still turns off the television, though, and picks up a book instead.

* * *

Without thinking about it, she reaches for the phone before it even starts ringing.

“Hello,” she answers, yawning deeply as she burrows further under the quilt.

“Hi,” he replies, and in just that one small syllable he sounds so glum, so gloomy that she genuinely thinks something is really wrong.

“What’s the matter?” she asks, concerned.

“I miss you already,” he replies, sighing heavily. “I’m in bed and you’re not here. You’re hair isn’t tickling my nose, your bloody freezing toes aren’t trying to tuck themselves into my shins for warmth and my arms don’t know what to do without you to… snuggle… up in them.”

There’s such a heavy note of sullen disgust in his tone as he voices the last part of his sentence that Grace can’t not smile.

She also can’t help the soft, warm laughter that escapes her. “Oh dear, Peter,” she tells him, “I was just thinking something very similar.”

The response is an incoherent and displeased grumble.

“Where do you suppose that leaves us?” she wonders, pulling an extra blanket over herself for warmth. Seemingly, it’s a lot colder without said snuggling.

“On opposite sides of the sodding city,” he mutters, resentfully.

“I suppose so,” she agrees quietly, not wanting to provoke an argument when he’s clearly not happy with the situation. She isn’t either, but there’s not a lot she can do about it.

He picks up on her tone though, and she can almost hear the smirk in his voice as he asks, “Or were you hoping I’d say something horribly sentimental, hmm? That we’re obviously hopelessly in love and oh, I don’t know, destined to spend the rest of eternity stuck with each other?”

“Mmm,” she assents, “that too. Maybe.”

He can’t quite believe her. “Really?”

Grace laughs and rolls onto her side, curling into the pillows. “No, Peter, never. Not your style.”

This time she can hear his smile, just before the gruff, “Doesn’t make it untrue though.”

“Oh, so you do love me then?” she prods, unable to resist teasing him a little. She expects him to grumble, or tease her right back. She does not expect the sincere, heartfelt response that she actually gets.

“You know I love you, Grace. You know I do.”

“And the other bit?” she hedges, unsure.

He doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t pause for even a second. “Yeah, that too.” There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Stupid bloody weather!”

Her eyes sting a little, but she’s smiling as she takes in his words, turning them over in her mind, examining them carefully. She loses herself in her thoughts for a while, and there’s a much longer silence before she hears, “Grace? You still there?”

“Still here,” she confirms, as another yawn overtakes her. Wanting to hear his voice, she quietly asks, “Tell me a story?”

So he does. He’s good at it too, and she listens to him talk, absolutely absorbed in the warm, deep velvet of his voice, in the rise and fall of his tone as he winds a tale of mystery and intrigue around her, captivating her. It mixes with the scent of him in the sheets beside her, slowly relaxing her, lulling her towards slumber. It’s wonderful. And while he may not be tucked up beside her, his arms wrapped warmly and securely around her, it is very definitely the next best thing.


	23. Weather

**Weather**

* * *

**Sunday 23 rd December**

It’s quite possible she’s being very foolish, quite possible indeed. But, frankly, Grace doesn’t care. It’s also possible – in fact, it’s more than likely probable – that if Boyd knew what she was doing, he’d have an absolute fit, complete with bitter arguing, highly vociferous shouting and intense attempts to dissuade her from even attempting something so foolish. But he doesn’t know, and she’s more than willing to take advantage of that – he may well fume and rage and berate her later for what he perceives as her cavalier attitude towards her own safety, but she has considerable faith in her ability to not only endure his likely outburst, but also to weather the storm.

It’s barely even snowing now – just a handful of fat, lazy flakes drifting here and there, and eventually settling gently on the drifts and piles that have accumulated overnight – and with the reflective nature of the stuff, and the ample street lighting, visibility is great as she drives slowly and steadily across the city.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind is muttering rebelliously at how stupid this is though, how she really should not be attempting to cross the city in this weather, but she resolutely ignores it, much as she ignored the implied warning in the sheer amount of time it took her just to defrost and de-snow the car before she could even get it off her driveway. Admittedly, she thinks, as she cautiously approaches a sharp bend, it probably isn’t the best idea she’s ever had. The main roads are more or less clear, but the side roads and those around the estate she is currently attempting to navigate are most definitely not, and she thanks her lucky stars that she is evidently not the first person to be up and about at such a ridiculously early hour as she carefully manoeuvres the car through the tyre tracks some brave soul has already ploughed through the snow.

Stupid… yeah, maybe, she concedes, as the car slides a little on the slippery surface before regaining traction, and dangerous… mmm, definitely, but… she really missed him last night. And having woken at some unearthly hour, bored and unable to get back to sleep, she’d simply looked out the window and then checked the weather forecast. With the predicted continuance of the fluffy white precipitation from mid-morning onwards, and having no inclination to remain stuck – alone – in her own home, she decided there really was only one available course of action.

She’s gambling on him still being firmly tucked up in bed, resolutely refusing to greet the world any earlier than he absolutely has to at the weekend – that way she can slip inside before he’s properly awake and had a chance to think about any of it. If she’s already there when he wakes up she’ll be at a significant advantage in the distract-him-and-get-him-to-think-of-other-things scheme. Yeah, she’s doing the right thing. She most definitely is.

Provided she gets there in one piece, of course.

She concentrates intently, gritting her teeth as the car slides rather more than it rolls around another corner. It’s not much further, and she’s managed so far without any kind of disaster – a fact that will definitely work in her favour when she eventually has to make her case to Boyd – but even so, she’s incredibly glad when the familiar street finally comes into view. Parking is quite tricky, given that she can’t see where the road ends and the pavement begins, but eventually she feels the tyres bump gently against the kerb and she sighs in grateful relief. Not quite the worst journey of her life, but it’s probably up there in the top ten.

Looking up at the house, she sees bright light shining around the edge of the closed bedroom curtains. He’s awake then. Damn. There goes the sneak-in-and-suitably-distract-him plan.

Time to regroup.

A flash of inspiration strikes, though what provokes it she really couldn’t say. But, like so many wicked ideas, once that initial seed is planted, it’s a plan that is just begging to be fully executed. Perhaps it’s the way the breeze stirs the branches of the large, bushy hedge beside the driveway, causing chunks of snow to plummet to the ground, or perhaps it isn’t, but whatever the cause, the opportunity is far too golden to pass up. She glances around, checking that her car is fully concealed behind the wall, out of sight of the front door. It is.

Good.

Dragging her feet through the snow to disguise her boot prints, she makes her way to the front steps and then back to the street, leaving a clear trail around the wall and out of sight. The tree will make not only a perfect vantage point, but also provide great cover, and she sidles carefully behind it, taking a few moments to ready her ammunition. Then, convinced she is appropriately prepared, she makes her way back up to the front door, keeping to the tracks she has already worn, and rings the bell, before hurrying back toward the street and ducking behind the tree again.

Picking up her first missile, she waits, a smirk of unholy glee embedded firmly in her lips. She’s far too old to be enjoying this quite so much. Probably. But damn, if it isn’t just so tempting. Especially given the style of payback likely to come her way later. Her grin widens as, ever patient, she waits and watches for precisely the right moment.

She imagines the irritable grumbling going on inside the house, and could she hear him herself, she wouldn’t be at all surprised with the spectacular accuracy of her predictions – she does know him very well, after all. She imagines the hastily donned dark green sweatshirt that she’s filched on more than one occasion now, and the blue drawstring tracksuit bottoms he is fond of lazing about the house in early on cold weekend mornings. She pictures, perfectly, the heavy frown of irritation that someone has dared to knock on his door at such an obscenely early hour.

In her mind’s eye, she sees him stumbling slightly as he tries to stuff his feet into slippers that are always rather haphazardly abandoned by the bedroom door, and that she nearly broke bones tripping over the first time she stayed here. She mentally counts the thunder of heavy, annoyed steps as he descends the stairs at speed, and the thud of the deadbolt being rather too forcefully wrenched back, the key being turned in the lock.

The door is yanked open, and there he is, exactly as she pictured him; bad-tempered, barely awake and delightfully dishevelled. For a moment Grace almost forgets her plan, almost steps out from behind the tree to wrap her arms around him, to breathe in the warm, familiar scent of him… but the wonderfully dark scowl on his face as he discovers an empty front garden stops her, makes her adjust her grip slightly on the object in her hand and keep waiting. This is just far too good an opportunity to pass up. It really is.

He takes a step forward, and promptly growls his displeasure as his slipper clad foot vanishes into the snow. Grace feels laughter bubbling inside her and presses her lips firmly together, defiantly holding it at bay, determined not to give herself away. Not yet, anyway.

She watches Boyd’s eyes follow the deliberately misleading tracks in the snow, sees him shift his weight slightly as if he’s half tempted to walk to the wall and peer around it, searching for the missing bell ringer. Inevitably though, it seems that the outside air temperature is just too low, and the snow far too deep and cold to be tackled in just his slippers. He mutters something inaudible, turns and, recognising her moment, Grace grips the tree with one hand, leans sideways and, with stunning precision, hurls the object in her hand across the open space between them.

The snowball arcs cleanly and silently through the air, before coming to an abrupt – and likely very chilly – stop right between his shoulder blades. Fragmenting upon impact, chunks of snow are driven beneath the collar of his sweater, while still others work their way into his spiky and deliciously messy morning hairdo.

There’s the predictable roar of surprise, and a lot of hurried tugging and yanking on fabric as he spins around, very quickly trying to shake free the clumps of snow that are sliding coldly down his spine. De-snowed, but still furious, his eyes narrow as he stares at the wall and the tracks that disappear around it.

Already re-armed, Grace stands very still, waiting to see what he will do next. She thinks he will fight back – it’s not in his nature to back down, it never has been – and she’s right; he crouches down and scoops his own handful of snow, and then simply advances. Ignoring the fact that his slippers and a good portion of his trousers are immediately overwhelmed by snow, Boyd makes his way through her tracks, heading towards the wall he evidently suspects his foe is hiding behind. The moment he gets there, Grace realises, her advantage will be over. He’ll see her car, he’ll know instantly who’s attacking him and where she’s standing. In fact, if he glances her way in a moment or two, he’ll be able to see her anyway. Damn.

Very carefully she sidles around the tree, moving as slowly and smoothly as possible so as not to attract his attention. She knows very well how observant he is when he wants to be, and she’d bet her right arm that in this particular moment his senses are all on high alert. He’s intently focused on the edge of the wall, snowball at the ready, and as he passes her, Grace decides to make use of the final advantage her hidden location allows, and catch him off guard before he realises where she is.

There’s a lot of satisfaction to be taken in the undignified yelp that escapes from her prey as her second throw lands just as on target as the first, breaking apart on his shoulder and propelling a shower of fresh snow straight into the side of his face. Mischievous laughter escapes her, creeps around the edges of the tree and he turns, immediately spotting her. For a second they stare at each other – Grace undeniably wickedly entertained, Boyd utterly stunned – and then the spell breaks as he suddenly remembers the snow that is clasped in his own hand, but either he’s still slightly shocked, or he’s very much out of practice, because Grace ducks easily before catching him square in the chest with a left handed throw, smirking openly at him.

Thoroughly affronted, but very quickly over the shock Boyd drops to his knees in the snow, gathering handfuls of the stuff and crushing it together. Still determined to play to every advantage she can, Grace pelts him with the rest of her pre-formed ammo, scoring hit after hit and making it increasingly difficult for him to focus on his task. A couple of wildly errant snowballs still manage to come flying her way though, but she dodges them with a taunting grin and a mocking, “That’s the best you can do, is it?”

Too late, she realises that perhaps, given that she’s just run out of snowballs, and he’s now armed with at least half a dozen, provoking him was perhaps not the best move she could have made. There are a lot of teeth visible as he straightens up and takes aim. She ducks again, just in time to avoid the first, but not the second, which glances off her shoulder before hitting the tree. She risks peering out from behind the trunk.

“Slight improvement,” she grants him, before ducking again, amidst peals of laughter at the determined expression on face. Gathering more snow, she takes the time to crush it into the perfect shape, rather than risk the sort of mid-air disintegration that Boyd doesn’t seem to care about. His strategy seems to have moved on to throwing as much snow at her as possible, regardless of shape, size or aerodynamic properties. Consequently, not much of it seems to be making contact.

There’s a sudden halt through, one that allows Grace to peer out from behind the tree again and take careful aim. He’s retreated behind the steps, and seems to be concentrating on something, gathering snow from the surfaces, and giving her easy opportunity to pelt him again, grinning at him as he glances up and glares back at her. Quick as a flash, he hurls a snowball, his speed and accuracy catching her by surprise. The freezing chill of the snow that works its way beneath her scarf makes her yell and curse him as she fumbles for the knot, determined to get it out.

Thoroughly distracted, she doesn’t see him emerge from behind the steps, doesn’t notice the ridiculously large and well-formed weapon he’s managed to produce. Nor does she see the way he hurls it with strength, care and incredible precision straight up into the tree. It shatters upon impact, just as he presumably expected, but it also rustles the branches as it does so, which obligingly shake free their considerable burden of snow, dumping the whole lot down on Grace’s head.

She gasps at the shock of the sudden, unexpected onslaught and stumbles away from the tree, blinking rapidly as she tries to wipe snow out of her eyes and brush it out of her hair. She can hear Boyd cackling madly in triumph as she accidently walks into his car, staggering and slithering awkwardly behind it, sheltering from the storm of suddenly much more accurately thrown snowballs coming her way.

This is not good. Not good at all. In fact, it’s an absolute disaster. There’s no way in hell she’s going to let him win. He’ll be insufferable for days if she does.

Glancing around, she desperately tries to find some way of turning the game back in her favour, but it doesn’t look likely. There’s too much snow piled up on the roof of the Audi for her to be able to easily see over the top of it, and he’s pulled far enough forward onto the drive that she can’t get around the front, leaving her effectively trapped. Unless…

Grinning to herself, she takes precious time to procure herself fresh ammunition, folding them into her scarf for easy transportation, and then peers cautiously around the back end of the car. He’s leaning against the tree – still laughing at his success, and waiting for her to emerge, idly tossing a snowball up and down in his hand. Clearly thinking he’s the victor, he seems to have let his guard down, which is absolutely perfect. Grace has no qualms about taking advantage of his lapse in concentration, none at all.

Firmly braced, she straightens in one smooth quick motion, simultaneously launching her offensive. And as plans go, this one works really rather spectacularly. The snow smacks straight into Boyd’s face, momentarily blinding him and allowing her sufficient time to escape off the drive, hurry around the wall and reappear on the pathway while he roars in fury.

Strategically repositioned on the steps, heavily armed with the contents of her scarf and ready to take aim again, she asks smugly, “Give up yet?”

“Never,” Boyd yells back, stumbling out of the flowerbed and flinging his last remaining snowball straight at her. It smacks into her shoulder, making Grace’s throw wild and very much off target. Boyd grins, Grace scowls, and suddenly there is a lot of snow flying through the air as a fierce, desperate struggle for victory breaks out. At a significant disadvantage from the bottom of the steps, Boyd changes tactics and simply charges towards her, and as he lunges up the final step, Grace makes a last ditch effort to score what might possibly be the final point. She’s thrown off balance though, when he simply seizes hold of her to prevent further attack, and the snowball in her hand is accidentally deployed in entirely the wrong direction and with a lot more force than she intended.

Appearing suddenly around the hedge, Boyd’s perpetually grouchy, elderly curtain-twitching neighbour manages to shout angrily, “Will you kids pack it i –” before he is abruptly cut off by a mouthful of snow. Wrestling and scrapping with each other at the top of the steps, Boyd and Grace instantly freeze.

“Oh shit,” mutters Boyd, a hint of wild, momentary panic in his eyes. Edgar Wilkinson is a difficult neighbour at the best of times. He despises Boyd – has never, in close to twenty years, made a secret of that fact – and spends most of his time looking for grievances that simply don’t exist, nit-picking issues that are irrelevant, and making snide comments on just about anything Boyd cares to do or say. He’s a trouble maker of the most obnoxious, irritating kind; even worse, he is one who is both retired with plenty of time on his hands, and is generally incredibly bored. 

Caught in a moment of horrified yet highly amused indecision, Boyd briefly flounders, watching as Wilkinson coughs and splutters, spitting out chunks of snowball as he mops frantically at his face. Boyd’s clearly wondering if this is the moment where simmering neighbourhood tensions are finally about to erupt into full scale warfare, thinks Grace, and he looks certain that whatever he says, no matter how well intentioned, it will not go down well with Edgar.

Still caught up in his grip, Grace briefly hesitates, but then, having been the object of the old man’s displeasure on more than one occasion herself, makes an executive decision. She shoves Boyd back into the house and quickly, quietly shuts the door behind them, turning the key and shoving the bolt home before exploding into fits of laughter.

“That’ll teach him to glare at me from behind his curtains and scowl every time he sees me arrive,” she smirks, shivering. “Nosy old codger.” Ignoring, for the moment, just how bitterly cold she is, she turns, still grinning, and announces victoriously, “I win.”

Boyd’s eyebrows snap together, and he shakes his head in disbelief, neighbourly concerns entirely forgotten. “In your dreams!” he retorts, looking her up and down. “Which one of us is wearing the most snow, hm? That would most certainly be you.”

“Ah,” taunts Grace gleefully, peeling off her soaked and frozen gloves, “but who was the most accurate? Definitely not you!”

She sees the flash of irritation in his eyes, and she revels in it, her amused grin growing even wider as she stares up at him. He steps closer, right into her personal space, backing her up against the door as his body crowds against hers. His hair is full of rapidly melting snow, the strands gleaming in the early morning light and his fingers are icy as they trace her cheek, run along the edge of her ear, but his eyes glitter with warmth and affection, with lust and amusement as he leans towards her, the very tips of his fingers brushing down her neck.

“Maybe,” he concedes softly, and her breathing quickens as he moves even closer, his lips mere inches from her own. “But,” he continues, and suddenly grabs the stubborn chunk of snow that has been clinging to her shoulder and shoves it down the back of her neck, “I definitely get the last point.”

Grace shrieks at the sudden cold, frantically twisting away from him as she struggles to strip off her coat, gasping as her fingers fumble the buttons and the snow slides an icy path further down her back, stealing her breath and stinging her skin. And to make matters worse, Boyd just stands there, entirely smug, and watches as she swears and splutters, cursing him and his refusal to play fair. Damn the man. He’s so wretchedly infuriating. But so ridiculously handsome, too. She glares daggers at him, and finally yanks off the stubborn fabric, shaking melting ice everywhere.

“Good morning to you, too,” she mutters grumpily, sheading more layers of cold, soggy clothing. “I’m so glad I made the effort,” she continues, still scowling and shivering and flicking chunks of snow out of her hair.

Oops. Grace knows instantly that she shouldn’t have said that. Can see it in the way his expression shifts as it finally dawns on him that she’s actually standing right there in front of him. She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath. Here it comes, she thinks, and then watches as he folds his arms and gazes at her with that particular expression of his that simultaneously manages to convey both his concern and his displeasure, while also having the unfortunate effect of making her feel like a naughty school girl. It’s an unpleasant sensation, not least because she’s a mature, sensible woman, but also because, in the end, it is she who is in the wrong. She distinctly remembers faithfully promising him last night that she wouldn’t go driving across the city in such treacherous weather.

Oh well. Too late now.

She tries for what she imagines is a hopeful, sweet, but you love me anyway smile. She fails. Dismally. She can see it in his eyes.

“Grace,” he sighs, utterly exasperated as he runs his fingers through his hair, making the soggy strands stand up on end. “What on earth were you thinking? Driving in this weather? You could have got yourself killed!”

To which, naturally, she doesn’t actually have an entirely appropriate response. At least, not of the kind that's going to sooth him at this moment in time. She suspects – quite rightly – that ‘because I missed you’ isn’t going to fly with him. Not this time anyway.

It’s a shame, but never mind.

There are still plenty of other tactics in her arsenal.

Now seems to be a good time to fall back on the distract-him-and-get-him-to-think-of-other-things scheme. Mm, yeah. That’s definitely a good idea. She could answer him, of course, but that would just open the floor for an argument she suspects could easily end up being drawn out over the majority of the day. And considering she really did spend the lion's share of yesterday – and last night, too – missing him, an argument is most definitely not what she wants. At all.

Distracting him it is then.

Despite the warmth of the house, most of their clothing is either snowy and utterly sodden, or at the very least extremely damp and cold, and both of them are now shivering quite considerably. Warming up is definitely a requirement, and in pretty short order too. Accordingly, Grace’s thoughts turn to the large shower upstairs, the shower that very easily accommodates both of them, and, allowing her thoughts to wander a little, she supresses a smile. Pulling her sweater over her head and dropping it onto the pile of soaked clothing, she pauses to tug off her boots and then heads for the stairs.

“Where are you going?” he wants to know, eyebrows still drawn, stance still clearly indicating his disapproval. Her socks are just as cold and wet, so she stops on the bottom step to peel them off, tossing them vaguely in the direction of everything else.

“For a hot shower. I’m freezing!” she replies, raising an eyebrow at him in a sly, knowing invitation.

She makes it three steps from the bottom before he suddenly stops her with his quick, “Wait, wait!”

She turns to face him, holding the rail for balance. “What?”

“Your trousers are covered in snow,” he points out.

“So?”

Boyd’s hands are on his hips and he’s grinning at her. Grinning in a manner that suggests he’s about to say something that’s either highly inappropriate, or won’t be well received. Or possibly both. “So, you’ll get the carpet wet. Take them off.”

She tries for a withering look, hoping to preserve some dignity. It’s a waste of time – he simply leans far too easily against the wall, watching her with entirely too much amusement in his eyes. Amusement and speculation and perhaps just a hint of the belief that she won’t do it. Well then. If that’s the case…

It’s the thought that if she refuses, he’ll spend the rest of the day nagging her that makes her reach for the button, but it’s the knowledge that her distraction plan is working so well that makes her hold his gaze and unfasten it slowly. Particularly as another, highly amusing, thought occurs to her.

Stepping delicately out of the offending clothing, she screws the fabric into a ball and tosses it to him. “Happier now?” she enquires casually.

Despite his attempted seriousness, his eyes give him away as he intones, “Immeasurably.”

Grace just rolls her eyes at him and backs up another step, not missing the way his eyes roam along the length of her bare legs. “Peter?”

“Mmm?” his eyes finally meet hers.

“Are you coming?”

He merely gives her a look, and then starts up the stairs after her.

Grace holds out a hand to stop him. “Hang on a moment,” she tells him, running her eyes over his very hastily chosen clothes. She grins wickedly, certain in the knowledge that he wouldn’t have bothered to put on anything underneath.

“What?” he asks, confused.

“Your trousers are covered in snow, too…”


	24. X-mas Eve

**X-mas Eve**

* * *

**Monday 24 th December**

It’s late. Very late, in fact. So late there are only a handful of lights still on in the rows of houses they slowly but steadily pass as they meander, hand in hand, from one street to another. It’s not dark though, not at all. True enough, the sun has long since set and while there are surely stars twinkling away high above them, they are sadly hidden from view by the heavy London light pollution and the low lying clouds that are threatening more heavy, fat white flakes, but the world around them is eerily well lit by a combination of street lights and the reflective nature of the thick fluffy drifts and layers of snow that are not just coating, but heavily blanketing just about everything around them.

A record snowfall, that’s what the newscasters have called it. London – and indeed most of the country – hasn’t seen the like in many, many years now, and accordingly, and really quite predictably, everything and anything seems to have ground to a complete and utter halt. There’s very little to be done about it, and with more of the stuff scheduled to arrive in the next few days, the best thing to do seems to be to enjoy it and make the most of it while it lasts. Hence the late night walk.

They round another bend and stop to admire the rather spectacular efforts that have gone into creating not just one solitary snowman, but a whole family of them – clustered around the junction, they are waving merrily at each other from each corner of the crossroads. Further down the road a row of them stand side by side, neatly lined up like Russian nesting dolls; the biggest over a foot taller than Boyd, the smallest just eighteen inches or so. Each is an exact replica of the one before it; coal black eyes, carrot noses and wide, happy smiles.

Clearly there is some sort of competition happening in this neighbourhood, because the next avenue contains a remarkably well carved Wallace, Gromit and Shaun, as well as Paddington Bear and Puss in Boots. At the end of the road a normally grassy island is now home to Winnie the Pooh, Eeyore, Tigger, Rabbit, Piglet and Roo. Incredibly, Owl is even there too, perched on a branch of the single, straggly and rather forlorn tree, a wing wrapped around the trunk for balance.

Christmas lights twinkle merrily at them from windows and doorways as they make their way across the frozen road for a better look. Boyd automatically tightens his grip on Grace’s hand, holding on to her as they navigate patches of ice hidden within the unploughed landscape.

“The detail is incredible,” muses Grace, as she examines Tigger, looking up a good few inches into the grinning face of the bouncy tiger.

“Mmm,” Boyd agrees, crouching down to inspect Piglet, his gloved fingers still securely wrapped around hers. They continue on, saying very little but taking in the peace and quiet, the unexpected stillness of a city frozen to a standstill. It’s a different world around them, one they are far from used to but are enjoying nevertheless.

Snow crunches under their feet, the sound distinctive and agreeable. Their breath fogs in front of them, forming soft clouds that hover in the dense, still air. It’s so quiet they can hear their own breathing, the rustle of their heavy winter clothes as the snow deadens other noises, absorbing much of the sound of late evening.

They pause again to stare in wonder at the perimeter walls and front gate of a corner house that has been given a new façade; a snowy makeover of castle walls, complete with sculpted battlements and a drawbridge. Beyond the walls, standing proudly in the middle of the front garden is a fully armoured knight sitting astride a life-size and ready-to-charge warhorse. Behind them a banner rustles as a single gentle gust of wind picks at the edges of the old sheet, revealing the fierce, roaring lion that has been painted in brilliant yellow edged in scarlet and secured to an old broom handle. There are other details too; plastic crossed swords and a shield hang between the Christmas lights and the decorative wreath adorning the front door, and just visible peering around a large fir tree is the side profile of a snowy archer, his wooden longbow trained steadily on the pair of them as they stand there in admiration.

Crossing the road again they turn into another street, taking a long and circuitous route back by wordless agreement and this time entering a world of safari animals. They pass an elephant staring down a cheetah, a family of meerkats standing watch outside a community centre and a lioness playing with her cubs beneath a large, commanding oak tree. They are moving on from an enormous and very imposing hippo when Boyd feels his boot snag and glances down, discovering that his lace has come loose. Snarled in a complicated knot, it will require that he removes his gloves in order to achieve the dexterity needed to remedy the situation.

“Careful,” he murmurs to Grace, as she lets go of him and moves to look over the nearest garden wall at the small heard of deer populating the snowy lawn. He feels her smile, knows she is quietly amused by his protectiveness. He says nothing, just crouches down and goes to work on the stubborn boot, fingers immediately bitterly cold without the heavy insulation of fleece. It’s an irritating and fiddly task, compounded by the frozen nature of the snow-covered lace, and it takes a lot longer than tying a shoe normally should. By the time he finally stands up and jams his thoroughly icy hands back into his gloves, he’s not only annoyed from the inconvenience, but also distinctly chilled from the few minutes of inactivity. He glances to his left and frowns, turning slowly as he scans the immediate area for his missing companion.

She’s wandered down the street and is looking up at a lamppost, which has been transformed from a dull, steel grey pillar into a majestic and incredibly regal giraffe, complete with big, pointy ears and large, expressive eyes that are calmly surveying the street, keeping a steady watch over the rest of the menagerie.

Boyd stops where he is, his gaze fixed on Grace. The light spilling from the lamp is falling down around her, highlighting the wonder on her face and the calm, quiet happiness in her eyes. Thick, lazy snowflakes are tumbling from above, drifting slowly in the slight hint of a breeze that’s picking up. They swirl gently around her as she stands staring up at the giraffe, mesmerised by it. In the soft glow of the streetlamp he can see strands of hair defiantly poking out from under her woolly hat, can see the way she shivers and huddles her shoulders against the cold. A snowflake comes to rest on the very tip of her nose and he watches as she laughs, swiping it gently away.

It’s a ridiculously adorable moment and suddenly he’s struck with the sudden, overwhelming temptation to just ask her. To finally get an answer.

He doesn’t.

She has no idea, he realises, as he watches her; no idea how beautiful she is, how truly captivated by her he is. Briefly he allows himself to wonder what she would say if he told her, if he did just ask her, but then he casts the thoughts aside, wishing instead that he had a camera so he could freeze this moment in time.

The chill of the breeze on his neck brings him out of his thoughts. He adjusts his scarf, tucking it more thoroughly around his neck and strides towards her, stepping up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist, holding her snugly against his chest. He rests his head beside hers and takes a few moments to examine the truly impressive work that has gone into the giraffe, but mostly he just enjoys the feeling of her as she leans back into him, her hands tucking themselves over his and squeezing gently.

“All right?” he asks quietly, tilting his head to kiss her cheek.

Grace turns in his arms and looks up at him, her fingers sliding effortlessly up his body, locking comfortably around his neck. “Mmm,” she smiles up at him, “Are you?”

Her smile is infectious. It warms his heart as he gazes down at her, as she stands on tiptoe and steals a kiss from him. Her lips are icy, but still soft and inviting, and when she pulls back he’s smiling too.

“Yes,” he replies simply, because he is. He absolutely is.


	25. Yule

**Yule**

* * *

**Tuesday 25th December**

It's snowing again.

Big, thick, fluffy snowflakes are drifting in the freezing night air, swirling a lazy, hypnotising dance in the warm glow of amber light. Watching as they tumble into range of the streetlamp outside the big windows, blazing a pure, brilliant white against the depths of the night sky – a washed-out inky city blue instead of a deeper, more picturesque rural black – Grace finds herself falling into a kind of trance, mind ensnared by the path they travel, by the tiny flares of light that glisten off their surfaces.

They even look cold, she thinks, shivering involuntarily as an inexplicable rush of half-thoughts and haunting, chilly memories wash over her, make her skin prickle. It happens without warning, and without any cause she can find, leaving her chilled and faintly disturbed, her quiet, peaceful evening suddenly marred by a bleak speck of… something.

_Someone just walked over my grave…_

The saying flits through her mind as her mother stirs, trembling at the slightest noise, at the crackling shift of a burning log in the fireplace, the yawning stretch of the sleepy cat in her father's otherwise empty chair. The dog's tail thumping the floor as she dreams... _Little Grace, reading a book, pauses to watch as she outright shakes at anything that offers even a hint of resemblance to a fateful knock at the door, her shoulders tense, eyes widening with uncontrolled, overwhelming fear. There's a noise from outside, and the sound of heavy boots; the air in the room seems to freeze, and then there it is, the dull, heavy knock of a fist on wood…_

It's a tiny flash of an old, old memory, gone almost as soon as it arrives, but it still leaves an invisible mark on her, a sensation of something unpleasant, an unwanted intrusion.

Behind her and beneath her, his body tangled with hers amongst the sofa cushions, Boyd reacts instinctively, despite the fact that she has said nothing, done nothing to indicate her sudden distress. He is half asleep, but still the strong, heavy arm that's draped comfortably around her waist moves, palm rubbing up and down her arm, the motion more soothing than warming. Tender fingers comb slowly through her hair, teasing strands away from her face, the pad of his thumb massaging gently against the tension in her neck.

He shifts just a little, and then warm lips brush across her temple, a lazy, sleepy caress that's calming and reassuring, and wonderful all at the same time. Making a conscious effort to relax, she sinks further into the steady heat of him, closing her eyes momentarily as his hands continue to move, skimming over her waist to slide beneath the hem of her sweater, the skin-to-skin contact grounding her back in the moment, in the comfort of her reality.

The strength of him, hidden behind the tenderness he employs in his drowsy, languorous exploration, is incredibly reassuring. Head resting against his chest, she listens to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat, letting it soothe away the lingering traces of her unease. Her body calms and her thoughts settle, begin to roam, and Grace finds herself contemplating just how well they fit together, how naturally they read each other, respond to each other.

They spar and spark and bounce off one another at work, yet it works. They argue – bitterly and bloodily sometimes – yet it works. The foundations, set and moulded over many years now, are solid, unbreakable.

At home they are easy, effortless, mostly. There are squabbles and differences, emotions that get the better of them, and rows that break out over trivial, insignificant matters, but in the grand scheme of things, those are nothing.

Nothing, because they love and respect. They share, and they work together and somehow they muddle through. There are so many things Grace finds in him, that she shares with him. Companionship, common interests. Laughter and humour. Words, hours of conversation – some of it raw and in-depth, some of it meaningless and trivial, but all of it powerful, binding. Silence, too, that means just as much. Empathy and comfort. Honesty, security. Desire, passion. Love.

An ease and freedom to be exactly who they are, as they are. No artifice, no pretending. Just everything they are, separate, and together.

And somehow it all works.

They just… fit. Like two halves of a whole, they complement and complete, and, absolutely seamlessly, they fit together.

It's that simple.

Flames flickering in the hearth catch and hold her gaze, but the heat emanating from the fire is nothing compared to the blissful comfort of his arms. Nothing.

The moment of clarity is as stark as is the contrast between the snowflakes and the fire, the cold and the warmth.

The lazy day, and the easy, intimate celebration that they have quietly shared wanders through her mind, her memory picking out tiny moments, things that linger with her. His arms snug around her waist as they stared out of the window together, watching a robin move from one snowy fence post to another. The smile on his face and in his eyes as they shared breakfast in bed. Their laughter, mingling together as they decorated the tree.

It's so obvious, so clear and apparent.

Taking his hands in hers, she lifts them slightly, studies the lines and the veins, the bone structure, the scars – the evidence of life. His fingers flex, and he slides them through hers, tying them together.

Holding on.

"Marry me?" she asks, her voice soft yet clear.


	26. Zest

**Zest**

* * *

**Thursday 28 th February**

Grace appears to be frowning slightly into the mug clasped between her hands, absolutely lost in thought as he returns to their quiet, corner table from his quick, necessary trip.

Always thinking, she is, Boyd muses, her brain always ticking away. It’s fascinating to watch, sometimes, but then sometimes it makes him worry, too. Makes him wonder what’s going on behind those intelligent, deep blue eyes.

“Not having second thoughts, are you?” he asks lightly as he sits down again, this time eschewing the chair opposite her and instead taking a seat beside her on the padded vinyl of the cheery red bench running along the length of the coffee shop wall. “Not pondering whether this is really just a crazy, ridiculous, potentially catastrophic idea?”

The smile he gets as she looks up at him makes this entire, ludicrously long journey worth it. “Never. And I asked you, remember?!”

Studying her eyes, her smile, he grins down at her, slipping an arm comfortably around her waist and drawing her closer. “Not something I’m ever going to forget, Grace,” he replies.

It’s too easy to forget where they are, to put the two hundred plus miles still ahead of them out of his mind and to simply lean down, closing the gap between them. And somehow the gentle caress of his lips against hers turns into something considerably more, something that lasts rather too long and becomes a little too deep and mischievous for the bustling surroundings of a busy motorway service station, but damn it all to hell, he thinks. He’s waited a long time for this weekend, and he’s going to enjoy every single minute of it.

* * *

It was his idea, and even as the three hundred odd mile journey stretches into its sixth hour of winter darkness, neatly obscuring the passing scenery from view, he finds no trace of impatience arising, no hint of his classic irritability and short temperedness with the varying levels of traffic, the steady passing of time and the incompetence of other drivers.

None at all. Instead he simply reaches across to capture her hand, sliding their fingers together and squeezing softly, revelling in the gentle, contented sigh of response that comes from his relaxed, slightly sleepy companion in the passenger seat, and the accompanying tender returning pressure from her hand to his.

* * *

Keswick in Cumbria, a small, quiet and very comfortable hotel not far from Derwent Water is where they eventually end up – home for the next three nights. It’s very late – almost eleven, even – by the time they make it to their room but they still opt for a slow, sensual shared shower followed by a lazy glass of wine each, their soft chatter rising and falling naturally into the night air and the gentle glow of the lamps as the indulgence of their weekend, their time, takes over, everything else in their universe falling away.

Her question, his impatience, that’s what has brought them here. What has created this weekend, what prompted the phone calls and the paperwork, the reservations and the excuses for leaving London, for evading work. The idea has been fixed in his mind since it grabbed hold of him a mere handful of hours after she asked. Grabbed hold and seized him in a wild burst of enthusiasm and need. A single-minded desire to just do it. To take her at her word. To prove something – everything – to her.

His eyes caress her body, drinking in the sight of her as she stands quietly, takes a sip from her glass. He watches the slow movement of her throat as she savours the liquid before swallowing, sees the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. Her eyes close and for a few long seconds he wonders yet again what she is thinking, feeling. So much of the time the way her mind works remains a mystery to him, he reflects, but then there are moments, precious gaps in the day or night, when her eyes give her away, when the emotion burning there is so bright and expressive he can see it all, can feel everything.

“Tired?” Grace asks, abandoning the window she has been gazing out of and wandering slowly over to where he is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her. Boyd reaches out, catches her hand. Tugs her closer until she’s standing right in front of him and he can rest both hands on her waist, gazing thoughtfully up at her. Her expression is clear and calm, relaxed, open.

Shaking his head he offers a gentle, naturally easy smile. He is tired, but it’s not the most pressing matter on his mind, not the dominating, overriding emotion. “Happy,” he tells her, simply.

Grace places a hand on his shoulder, runs the other through his hair, stroking softly, rhythmically. “Not impatient?” she teases, her voice barely more than the lightest whisper tickling his ears.

“Not anymore.” It’s the honest truth.  

Perhaps, he muses, he has simply burned up all existing impatience in the lead up to today. Weeks of waiting and a checklist of requirements had unceremoniously tossed his ideas of wildly romantic spontaneity out of the window. He had chafed and growled, shouted and angrily searched the net to double check. He contemplated giving in, and then shouted some more, knowing he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

But he wouldn’t trade any of it.

Once the idea had become firmly rooted in his brain, and with her question still lingering in his ears long after she’d asked it, he wanted nothing more. Waiting, planning, submitting documents – so be it. It would all be worth it in the end.

And he was right. The delays, the frustration – it means nothing now. Not when they are only hours and a few miles away from their destination. Not when they have each other. Not when he can see that zest for life in her eyes, the beginnings of that delightfully well-hidden mischief as her fingertips leave his hair and glide across his face, following the line of his brow, the curve of his cheek. Not when he knows, as her thumb brushes lightly against his lips, tracing the outline before meandering languidly through the soft bristle of his beard, how happy she is, how much she’s enjoying this too. Not when he shares that very same enthusiasm, that zeal for enjoying every opportunity and moment that life chooses to grant them.

There’s a shift in her expression, a tiny gleam appearing in her gaze, one that tells him she knows he’s thinking, and what he’s thinking about, and that she thinks he shouldn’t be. He wants to laugh, both at how well she knows him, and at the direction her own thoughts are heading – the direction his are rapidly heading in as well. She thinks he shouldn’t be thinking, and he’s more than happy to oblige.

Closing his eyes he concentrates on her, on what she’s doing to him. It’s incredibly simple, her slow, deliberate exploration, but breathtakingly tender and it works an utterly bewitching, enthralling kind of magic on him.

There are no candles, no artificial lights now, only the steady, mystical glow of the full moon beyond the partially-drawn curtains. There are no sounds but that of her breathing and his, and the soft sighs and moans as they travel together down a familiar, erotic pathway. Already entirely lost in her he can feel nothing but her – her body, her weight against his as she winds herself closer, settling herself on his lap; her hands tracing across his suddenly hypersensitive skin, driving his mind into sensual oblivion, her lips following the trail of her fingers, teasing, touching, arousing.

“I love you,” he murmurs. It’s a reaction to the moment, and it’s not. It’s the truth, the honest, plain truth.

Her hands still for a second and then slide down, fingers linking together behind his neck as she leans closer. She’s pressed against him, body to body and it’s so familiar, so enticing. So right. Her scent floods his nose, washes through his brain as they meet in a kiss that tells of so much more than just one moment. More than this night, this weekend; more than just sex, desire. More than the endless depths of friendship. More than love, even. It’s everything they are to each other, everything they have shared, and everything they are intending to share from this moment on. It’s everything they think and feel, everything they want and need and have to give to one another.

“I know.” She’s a little bit hazy, and a lot drunk – not on the wine, but on him, on the moment. As he is on her and their time together.

Her hands stray across his chest, catching hold of the edge of the simple cotton tee shirt he pulled on after their shower. Insistent fingers tug north, search for the skin that lies beneath and he raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

Her lips find his again, and the world stops as he can taste her, feel the heat of her body from beneath the thin, silk robe wrapped around her, the weight of her settling closer, urging him to lie back and take her with him.

His shirt is gone; where and when, though, Boyd has no idea. All he knows is she’s smiling down at him as her hands and then her lips travel across his body, eliciting thoughts and sensations that stop his mind from functioning. It’s not a problem though, for in its place his senses take over, drinking in the rich array of scent and flavour and detail around him. Surrender to it all is the easiest option, and one to which he gladly yields.

* * *

He wakes to gentle light creeping around the edges of the heavy drapes and a sense of deep contentment, of pervading warmth and comfort. It takes a while for the vestiges of heavy slumber to fade away, and as they do he rolls lazily onto his side, searching.

Grace is still sleeping but she appears to be dreaming, muttering an incomprehensible stream of words under her breath as she fidgets, fighting against an invisible enemy and thrashing out in the process. His palm on her shoulder, rubbing slow, soothing circles is enough, though, and she calms quickly, relaxing back into the pillows. It’s a trick he learned a long time ago, within weeks of their relationship evolving from friends to something more. She dreams a lot, especially early in the morning. Mostly it’s harmless; wildly vivid and implausible scenes in brilliant shapes and colours that make no sense to either of them when she recounts the images to him, but that frequently provide plenty of early morning laughter and amusement.

Occasionally there are nightmares, but not today it seems, and for that he is grateful. Boyd watches her features, observes how she seems at peace as she breathes softly and slowly, a steadying metronome he’s used to lull himself to sleep on more than one occasion after unsettling dreams of his own.

It doesn’t take long for his observations to take a more physical direction, his train of thought becoming preoccupied with the way her eyelashes seem to tickle her cheeks, by the way the shadows hide the freckles on her shoulder, the soft hints of light baring only the outline of her skin and concealing all the details.

He doesn’t need the light. He can fill in all the missing bits of information from memory, does so now. His gaze wanders from her face to her neck and down, lingering at the hollow at the base of her throat as memory supplies him with what it feels like to press his lips there, to let just the very tip of his tongue drag up and across the ridge of her collarbone, that trail followed by a row of tiny kisses. The way she sighs softly and arches against him when his mouth lingers over the curve between her neck and shoulder filters through his mind, tempting him to try it now. To wake her slowly but surely with the ghostly pressure of tiny kisses and whispering caresses that gradually turn from barely there into something more, something deeper and much more reverent.

Lost in the moment, it takes him time before he sees the way the covers have fallen away slightly, but then he is greedily taking in the sight of her, every curve and plane cast in shadowy light, every hidden feature supplied by experience and knowledge. Grace shifts a little in her sleep, stretching her limbs and spine, and then Boyd’s gaze falls on the fading mark that even now still tugs sharply at his heart when he allows himself to remember its significance. That particular scar is nothing really, nothing, and everything. It’s short, well-healed and fading well – barely even noticeable anymore. But it is a permanent reminder of what he almost lost, that she could so easily have been taken away from him. Before he’d even taken a chance.

Even now it hurts to think of, makes his chest tight with the fear that has never really left. The best he can do is suppress it, try to reassure himself. She’s in his arms now, and he has no conscious memory of it happening. Instead he only cradles her closer and closes his eyes, focusing on how it feels, on the little things like the way her hair tickles his nose and her head seems to automatically seek out his shoulder to rest against.

There’s a soft sigh and a lingering kiss pressed against his chest. His heart floods with a warmth that spreads throughout his entire body, makes him speak the only thing in his mind, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Grace is sleepy, her voice heavy but still amused. “I should hope so, after we’ve gone to the trouble of putting ourselves through all this.” She tucks herself closer, snuggles deeper into his chest and wraps an arm around him, humming softly in pure pleasure.

Rays of brighter, more insistent light creep beyond the curtains but the two of them stay as they are, still and quiet and curled in each other’s arms as they watch the shadows disappear and a new day dawn.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” she murmurs.

Concentrating on nuzzling her hair, it takes a moment before her offer sinks in enough for him to process, to understand. “As if,” he scoffs, the words out of his mouth before he has chance to think about them. Reality catches up slowly. He lifts his head to look down at her. “I thought we’d already been through this? Unless you…”

She grins, and he growls, knowing he is being teased.

“We should get up,” Grace sighs, though she appears entirely disinclined to move from the tangle of limbs and lazy kisses and caresses that they seem to be caught up in.

“We probably should,” Boyd replies languidly, even as he remains intent on slowly, thoroughly tracing the curve of her shoulder with his fingertips.

“I seem to recall we have an important event to attend,” she whispers, the softest brush of her lips grazing the shell of his ear.

“The clock says we have plenty of time,” he counters, one hand leaving its position at her waist and gliding up, searching and seeking as his lips find hers again and then again. She says nothing in return, only meets him in a kiss that builds slowly and deliciously into something that is both deeply erotic, and breathtakingly emotive. Time seems to stand still as they lose themselves again and again in each other, in a storm of indulgent sensuality and desire, in whispered promises and heady sensory feedback, in a tangle of heated bodies and racing hearts, and joyful, searing passion that blazes bright and strong through both of them.

* * *

Before lunchtime the border between England and Scotland appears and then melts away again as Boyd drives, their destination soon materialising before them in a landscape that barely changes, offers no real clue that they have moved through one country and into another.

A single storey white building, old, with black beams and woodwork around the windows. Quaint, and yet somehow nondescript, easily blending in with so many other such places featured across the nation were it not for the signs proclaiming its fame, bringing forth a host of thoughts and wonderings about its history and all who have travelled here in the past. 

Inside there is the same feeling, the weight of history, of other people's – couples’ – stories weighing down on them. The building itself seems to know, seems to remember it all. Seems to contain the tangled strains of love and commitment, the hushed memories of secrecy, the rushed hurry of cautious travellers – it's all written deep into the oak beams, into the very fabric of the place.

And when it is finally their turn and they step into the fabled room, Boyd can’t not be awed by it all. By the thought of all those who have come before, and all those who will still follow. The blacksmith's anvil is cool and smooth under his palm, its solid immovability reassuring, calming. His eyes meet Grace's and he knows, without a doubt, that they are absolutely doing the right thing.

Her hands rest in his as they stand there face to face and a feeling like no other races across his skin, catches in his lungs, his chest. Grace gazes up at him, into him, as he gazes down at her, lost in the depths of her eyes, perhaps even her soul as today he sees everything there, as a thousand and one things pass silently, wordlessly between them. It’s a fanciful notion, he knows, and on any other day he’d chide himself for such thoughts, but not today. Not in this moment he has wanted and chased and wished for so much, for so long.

In his pocket is a ring for her, and in hers is one for him. Bought together, each choosing for the other, they are different yet somehow impossibly, incredibly matched. Simple bands that fit the character, the temperament of the receiver, and which reflect every facet of the bond between both the wearer and the giver.

Their vows are their own; hers written in solitude one evening weeks before and refined upon reflection and deep contemplation, his spoken in the moment from a collection of memories and thoughts and feelings amassed during the years of their evolving, changing relationship, and then mulled over in silence for the last few days.

The rituals of the officiant are kept to a bare minimum, by their own mutual choice, and the witnesses are unknown to them, but for a brief meeting before the ceremony. It doesn’t matter, for this moment is about them, and them alone.

To Boyd, the moment when he slides that cool metal circle onto Grace’s hand, to rest there on her finger for all the world to see, seems to be over far too quickly, seems to slip away before he manages to etch it into his mind forever.

The words that follow, though, they are timeless.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife…”

The kiss isn’t. The kiss is their history and their memories. It is this moment and a promise by both for all the moments still to come. It is everything there is between them, now bound together and entirely shared. It is what they want, what they have both secretly wanted for a long time. It is love. It is them.

* * *

They pause only for a few photographs by which to remember the day, and then they retreat from the area, driving back to walk in solitude around the shores of Derwent Water. They amble along, hand-in-hand, and take in the scenery, the stillness of nature and the wonderful silence, the complete lack of other people.

Today is a day only for them. Today they focus on nothing but each other, on their promise of forever, of love. They talk, and they share silence, comfortable and happy, and basking in it all. The significance of the day fades away as they concentrate on each other, lose themselves instead in the rarity of being so many miles from their normal lives, so far removed from the need to deal with anything. There are no phone calls to distract them, no emails to answer. No work to squeeze in around those precious, normal weekend moments.

It’s refreshing, energising, muses Boyd, as he uses his thumb to turn the ring a full circle around his finger. It’s seems a strange thought, and a silly one, but he wonders when was the last time he felt this happy, this relaxed and uninhibited, this free from pressure and stress. This able to let it all go and concentrate on only what he wants to.

He feels utterly calm, entirely at peace with every fibre of his being. It won’t last, he knows that, but in this moment it’s an almost overwhelming thing to experience. A hint, perhaps, of what the not-too-distant future is offering him now.

Across the lake the sun is beginning to set, its sinking rays flickering across the water and changing its colour, painting a masterpiece of impressionist art in a blaze of every hue imaginable from the brightest yellows and pinks and oranges to the deepest reds and purples. They stop to watch, Grace tucked back against his chest as his arms encircle her, head dropping to rest on her shoulder as they quietly take in the spectacular view as their day draws to an end.  

Her hands rest lightly over his, her head tilts until their cheeks brush and he tenderly nuzzles her soft skin, bestows a lingering kiss against her temple and breathes deeply, contentedly. Her fingers squeeze, a gentle pressure against his own, one that he then returns. Neither speaks the words the simple gesture replaces – they don’t need to.


End file.
